


You Either Die a Hero

by ThisIsGayAF



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: BTT plus arthur, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hero x Villain au, M/M, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, USUK - Freeform, al has powers, al needs therapy, also kind of a coffee shop au on the side, arthur has a batman complex, as well as drug abuse and alcoholism, background prucan if you squint, but plot twist arthur's the hero in this, so does matt, the mafia exists but is not romanticised, the prucan is more obvious now so er. Side prucan, trigger warnings for mentions of abuse, very plot driven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:28:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25701358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisIsGayAF/pseuds/ThisIsGayAF
Summary: Alfred fell through the cracks, desperate for money to fund his brother's medical needs, becoming a criminal was the only way. What happens when the local vigilante and thought-to-be-Urban-Legend starts regularly messing up Al's jobs and getting him into trouble?
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), Arthur Kirkland/Alfred F Jones
Comments: 58
Kudos: 85





	1. I

In fairness, Alfred had never meant to be criminal. He used to have hope for a positive future, people left and right told him he was going places, told him he could do anything he wanted, believed in him. Another American golden boy, a high schooler with dreams and ambitions, a future with hopes of a sports scholarship to a good college close to home, popular, captain of the football team, all that jazz. It was all supposed to come easy to him, he was supposed to have the easy, carefree, American dream kinda life. Maybe a wife, maybe two or three kids, white picket fence. Yeah, everything was _supposed_ to be handed to him. But when Matthew got sick and the medical bills started rolling in, well, it wasn’t hard to figure out why he’d been so desperate for money. His family up and moved from California to Phoenix City so his dad could get a better job, save mom from working three, and because the doctors were apparently better in the city. Those first few months went by like a blur. Sure, starting a new school halfway through the year was difficult; he was upset for a while about leaving all his friends, but what hurt worse was seeing how pale Matt got as the weeks went by. Eventually reality came crashing down on him, his brother was dying, his family suffocating, and it became too much. Call him naïve, but the testing was meant to help. Not make him into _this._

Ah, right, the testing. He needed the money, also wanted to help find a cure to whatever rare illness his brother was fighting, so he signed up. Went under some tests, some experiments which he thought were honestly illegal, or should be, but he kept his mouth shut. Three and a half grand later, he felt like shit. His body was constantly in pain, he still hadn’t made anywhere near enough money to even help his parents with the bills a little, and Matthew still wasn’t getting any better.

The first time the lightning came out of his hands, he’d been staring into the bathroom mirror, nose bleeding, drenched in sweat, his lungs and everything else burning. The tears came from his eyes and didn’t stop. He couldn’t breathe, grasping the painkiller bottle helplessly as he almost dropped its contents down the drain with shaky hands. The minute the pills entered his mouth, he vomited and clenched the sink so hard bits of ceramic broke off. It made his whole body wrack with tremors. He was heaving, the contents of his stomach were mixed with so much blood he was surprised he was still standing. Then he closed his eyes tightly, head pounding, body swaying and he retched again. Before he knew what happened, heat pooled towards his hands, he saw a flash of what looked like light from behind his closed eyelids, and he was thrown into the wall behind him, back connecting with the cold stone painfully. He was out before he even hit the floor.

When he awoke, he was alone. The light was out, its bulb shattered, and wire completely fried. Pieces of ceramic and glass littered the floor, there was a significant crack in the wall behind him, the mirror looked as though it had been half broken, half melted. His sandy coloured hair was matted with blood from a crack in his skull where the back of his head had hit the wall, as well as cut where the side of his head had hit the floor. He could tell a large bruise was also forming on his back and he carefully stood up, groaning. Colour drained from his face the moment he realised the state of the bathroom. Luckily, it was the one attached to his bedroom, so he managed to hide it from his parents until he got the money to fix it.

The second time was when he’d been making a coffee one morning, a loud bang had echoed through his neighbourhood and made him jump. The blue energy shot from his hands and at the machine, which just about blew up and sent coffee flying everywhere. This was the first time he’d actually seen it happen. The shock that followed was quickly outweighed by the adrenaline, however, as he rushed to clean up. Fortunately, his parents had already left for work, but he’d had to tell them that the coffee machine had somehow stopped working when they got home, and that he’d thrown it out for them. It was that night when he promised himself he wouldn’t use his powers until he understood them, as cool as they were. This was the kinda stuff he read about in the comics he liked. Any other time, he would’ve been excited but, right now, everything just felt overwhelming more than anything.

The universe or God or whoever still wasn’t done hurting him, though. A couple days after the second lightning incident, someone broke into his house. It was just after his final exams; he was working the night shift at some shitty job at the time, helping his parents with money, doing something productive before he got his grades. When he came home, cops were everywhere, weren’t letting him in. He tried to push past the officers, tried to find out what happened, but no one was answering him, no one would even look him in the eye.

The second he saw two bagged figures being carried out of his house on gurneys, his entire body became heavy, he felt his knees give out, his mind go blank, and everything else go numb. Two officers next to him had managed to catch him before he fell. Everything after that kind of just fazed together. He thinks he was taken to the station, but after the crime scene had been fully investigated, he was allowed to go home to his empty house. It was usually empty, anyway, but this time it was different. This time no one would be coming in after a late shift. This time he was alone. Big empty house, blood still on some of the carpets and furniture, everything quiet and still and cold. He felt like he was drowning.

The funerals gave him that same drowning feeling, all closed caskets and hushed cries. He didn’t care much about his dad, who had been getting progressively… _Irritable_ the last few months. But the thought of his mom lying cold on the living room floor, tears falling from her eyes- electric blue ones Alfred himself had inherited- as she took her last breath, probably thinking of her boys, hoping they’d be okay without her- That’s what broke his heart and made him want to burn the world to the ground, find who did it and make sure his eyes were the last one’s they ever saw, burning with hatred. If they had been the last person his mother’s eyes ever laid upon, he’d make sure her blue irises would be the last thing they’d see, in turn.

Alfred and Matt inherited everything, but Al got control over most of the assets because Matthew was still staying at the hospital. The house, the car, the debt. They had no other family, and they were both 18, so they were basically thrown into the dust and told they were old enough not to need a legal guardian. Fell through the cracks of a shitty, uncaring, unhelpful system, one might say. He’d managed to sell the car for some cash, but no one wanted to buy a house where two people were murdered, meaning he was stuck paying for the house his parents died in, a house that was taking money he didn’t have. All it took then was for Alfred to meet some bad people at the wrong time, when he was at his lowest, when he was desperate. He fell right into their hands, still debating if he was actually willing or just vulnerable, but either way, now he’s here. A year into working for some anonymous rich guy who pays him to help out various criminals and gangs across the city. Currently, though, he’s in a shitty cold warehouse, wearing a laughably uncomfortable costume that’s too tight in all the wrong places, guarding some gang’s drug stash from an urban legend.

His sniffs a little, feeling a chill run up his spine, glaring at the open window across the large room. Who the fuck opens a window in the middle of Winter? _Guard these drugs, they said, the money will be worth it, they said,_ Alfred thinks. Really, though, he doesn’t have any other options at this point. On the plus side, Matthew’s been getting a little better, meaning Al’s been able to visit more. It’s nice, not so much seeing his brother still knocking on death’s door but being with him. It’s one of the few times he doesn’t feel alone. “You think he’s gonna show up?” Alfred’s pulled from his thoughts as another lookout leans on the railing in front of him.

The blond shakes his head. “Guy’s a myth.”  
  
“Nah, I’ve seen him.”

Alfred laughs. “Bullshit.”  
  
“I have! He’s been around for years- Four? I think? That’s when the rumours started, anyway.”

“No one’s seen him, you’re lying. Just a story parents tell their kids at night to scare ‘em out of being bad and everyone tells us, so we stop doing what we do. He doesn’t exist.”

“I know what I saw.” The guy grunts, rolling his eyes.

“Sure,” Alfred smirks. He leans next to the other on the railing, looking down at the room and crates below. He hums softly as he eyes the room casually before yawning. “I’m gonna grab a coffee…” He says as he descends the nearby stairs and walks into the office towards the bottom. He hears the other shout after him about how he shouldn’t leave his position, but it’s half-assed, nothing’s happening. No surprise there, nothing ever does happen, as usual, just another borin-

There’s a loud thud. Al’s only halfway through pouring his drink when he hears it, loud and clear, as if someone collapsed. He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, resisting the urge to call out for his partner. He turns off the coffee machine and stalks slowly to the doorway of the office, scanning the metal stairs suspiciously. He hears shuffling from above him and the creak of metal flooring beneath someone’s feet.

His hands light up defensively, balls of lightning ready to strike down anyone who may try to attack him. “The one time I get coffee…” Alfred mutters under his breath as he makes his way up the stairs. The landing’s dark, quiet. Someone must’ve turned out the lights whilst he was distracted. It’s almost deathly. His partner for the night is nowhere to be seen, but there’s something in the distance hanging from a support beam, swaying in the darkness. He sucks in a breath, eyes widening as he takes a step back. “What the fu-”

Something strikes him in the back of his head, sending him stumbling forwards, vision blurring slightly and making him see doubles of everything. He hisses, then turns quickly, sending a strike of blue at the first moving thing he sees, sending the figure to the ground. They get back on their feet almost immediately, however. Al surges a burst of energy throughout the room around him, making the lights flicker back on. The figure moves in a way that makes them look thoughtful, usually when people see his powers, they’re more fearful of awestruck. Whatever, he can still kick this guy’s ass.

He looks at the other more closely now, they’re covered in black armour, not a single bit of skin is showing. The amour is easy to spot through the dents and crevices it creates on his body, but it’s covered by a layer of what he assumes is black leather. His face is fully hidden by a headpiece that’s both a helmet and mask. It doesn’t have any features, no holes for his mouth or eye sockets, nothing. Just a plain, blank, faceless helmet. It does have two glowing green LED like lines that come from the top of the helmet to the bottom of its sharp chin, though, which Al is actually quite impressed by. It’s a nice touch. Oh, and he also has a long black cape that reaches his ankles, which is cool. He guesses he shouldn’t be judging his opponent’s fashion sense, though, and quickly gets into a defensive position. He’s pleasantly amused when the other gets into one, too. “And here I thought you were a myth.” He quips to the other masked figure. The other doesn’t respond, doesn’t even react to him, making him frown slightly. He’d heard the guy never spoke and did everything almost robotically, but yeesh, talk about a tough crowd.

Al decides ‘fuck it’ and delivers the first attack, going to punch the other in his gut, but his opponent blocks his attack, instead taking his wrist and twisting it painfully. Alfred yelps and heats up his arm until it burns the other enough that he lets go, giving Al an opening. He chooses to shock his chest then throw some strategic punches to various parts of his body. Greenie, Al decides to call him, manages to recover from the shock and holds his arms up in an ‘X’ position, blocking anymore of Al’s punches. Al retreats a little to catch his breath, grinning. He feels like Greenie rolls his eyes under the mask, which makes him grin more. “You know, if you wanna give up, I wouldn’t blame ya-” He’s cut off as Greenie drops to his hands, moving so his legs swing towards Alfred, tripping the blond up and making him fall onto his back with a loud bang. He groans, watching through winced eyes as the hero crouches over him. The man takes out what looks like a baton and hits Al harshly over his head, knocking him unconscious.

When Alfred wakes up, he’s upside down, tied to a support beam by his feet. He looks to his right where he sees his partner unconscious but alive. He sighs in relief, realising the swaying figure he’d seen earlier hadn’t been someone the ‘hero’ had hung. Guess the guy’s not into lethal force, which Al feels kinda grateful for considering he’s not dead. He can hear the wailing of sirens and see flashing red and blue lights in the distance from one of the large windows. After making sure his mask is still glued to his face, he hoists himself up, so his hands are touching the chain tying him to the ceiling and sets to work on melting it.

* * *

Arthur collapses onto his couch, sighing at the way his body aches. He carefully removes his amour, watching the city thrive beneath the moonlight from his window. He knows it has been a rough night by the way his muscles cry for mercy every time he moves and by the bags forming under his eyes. He pulls off the top half of his amour and curses, running a hand over his abdomen which was littered with bruises and had a large red mark in the middle, still hot to touch. Thankfully, he hadn’t been left with a scar, he thinks to himself as he stands up and trudges tiredly to the kitchen, pulling an ice pack from the freezer. He almost relishes in the way the pack cools down his burn and runs over the events of the night in his mind. Superpowers. That’s new. He hasn’t encountered anyone with any superhuman abilities, at least it’ll spice up his nightlife, though. The blond almost chuckles to himself.

His phone, which he had left on the side before he left, starts ringing loudly. The words ‘Nice legs, daisy dukes’ echo throughout his kitchen until he answers. He hoists himself up onto one of the counters, swinging his leg. “Kirkland.” He says sternly, as if the caller wouldn’t know who he was.

“Lighten the fuck up,” The person on the other end says. He can practically hear Gil smirking. “We’re gonna be over soon.”

“Door’s unlocked.”

“Gut, Francis has some upgrades, and I’ve got some intel.”

“Lovely, so do I. Should I put the kettle on so the tea’s ready in time for our gossip exchange?”

“You know I don’t drink that shit.” Gilbert laughs loudly, he can hear Francis in the background, probably giving his own opinion about beverages. Arthur sighs and simply pulls a bottle of wine down from one of the shelves above him then drops back onto the floor to pull a beer out of the fridge.

“Oh, I know, don’t worry. I’ve got your poison here.”

“Poison? Big words from someone who loves to drink as much as we do.”

“I don’t drink on work nights,” Arthur smirks. “How long will you be?”

“In the elevator now.”

“I’ll see you soon, then.” He says before hanging up.

* * *

“You know, it’s rude to hang up on people,” Gil says as he enters Arthur’s penthouse, holding the door open for Francis, who’s carrying a few shopping bags as well as a large duffle on his back. In all honesty, Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if they’d went shopping before stopping by, as late as it was. Gilbert sits himself on the couch, carefully shoving Arthur’s armour onto the coffee table. “What? You couldn’t clean up before we came?”

“I had more pressing matters, I’m afraid.” Arthur says sarcastically, gesturing to the plethora of injuries across his chest and abdomen.

“Holy shit.” Both Francis and Gil mumble. Francis immediately rushes over, pulling Arthur towards the couch and sitting him down. He pulls out a first aid kit from one of the many shopping bags that now litter the living space. “Did your chest plate break or something? Mon ami, what did you do?” He frets, carefully going over some small cuts with antiseptic.

“Well, I met someone with superpowers.” Arthur’s met with silence in which Francis looks at Gilbert in disbelief, whose eyes are busy scanning Arthur’s burn. He leans closer to the Brit.

“It was the lightning man, wasn’t it?”

“You know about him?”

“Heard rumours.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t know he was real. That’s what the intel I had was gonna be about. There’s been rumours floating around, apparently the guy showed up about a year ago, helping a few petty criminals. Even so, there’s nothing solid about him in the media.” He pauses to open his beer and takes a sip. “A few weeks go by and he gets picked up by some high end, white collar crime kinda guy who pays him to protect goods and gangs he’s involved with. If I had known he was gonna be at tonight’s drug bust, I woulda told you about him earlier. Ich hasse dich nicht so sehr, Artie.” Gil smirks, winking.

“Arthur,” The vigilante corrects. “Do we think his employer is keeping him out of the news?”

“Maybe he’s just good at covering his tracks, like you, Mr. Urban Legend.” Francis quips. He shakes his head, moving some of his blond curls behind his ear as he finishes patching up Arthur’s cuts. “Un de ces jours, vous allez me donner une crise cardiaquea. Keep the ice on your burn,” He looks towards Gilbert. “Pour une fois, je suis d’accord avec lui. It would have been nice to hear about this ‘homme éclair’ sooner, so I could’ve upgraded his suit.”

Gil shrugs. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”

“C'est tellement irresponsible! Speaking of which, why didn’t you patch him up? You’re the one with medical training!”

“Because you did it before I could even offer. Besides, it was a few small cuts and a minor burn, your amour designs are good for something.”

Francis sighs, resting his head in his hands. “If you kill our friend, I will kill you.”

“Kinky.”

“Where’s Toni tonight then?” Arthur butts in, changing the subject.

“On a date.” Francis sighs, most likely wishing he himself was on a date, Arthur suspects.

“Ah, probably for the best.” Out of their friend group, Antonio’s the only one who doesn’t know about Arthur’s vigilantism. He had spent the first two years doing it alone, but one bloody fight got too intense and Arthur was forced to crawl through Gilbert’s apartment window as he was bleeding out, asking the shocked nurse to help him. Gilbert had scolded him about how terrible his armour- If you could even call it that- was and practically dragged him to Francis’ house, demanding the tailor make Arthur a proper suit, hence their little team. The set up was nice, though, and it definitely brought them all closer together, not that Arthur would admit it. He’s considerably lucky that his friends happened to have occupations that benefited his nightly activities. There were a lot of ‘You need to stop, you’ll get yourself killed’ comments at first, but eventually they gave in. If their previous years of friendship with Arthur had taught them anything, it’s that he was too stubborn for his own good. It also helped that Francis’ shop got broken into and Arthur had managed to track the assailants down and get back everything they stole.

A voice rings out behind them, making them freeze. “Hola!” Speaking of the devil, Antonio struts towards the couch, large grin on his face. “Thought I’d find you here.” He pauses, grin faltering slightly, eyebrows furrowing at he looks Arthur up and down, then to the amour on the floor.

Gilbert visibly panics. “We were- Ficken, was ist das wort-?” He pauses before grinning. “Cosplay! We were helping Artie with his cosplay!”

“Why’s he all,” Antonio gestures to Arthur’s chest. “Lesionado?”

“It’s makeup!” Francis says, pulling some products from various shopping bags to prove his point. “We wanted to be thorough.”

“Ah,” Antonio nods, smiling again. “Looks good. My date went well, too! I’m taking him on a second one next week.”

“Wow, a second date? That’s unlike you.” Arthur smirks.

“No sea malo!” Toni frowns, slapping Arthur’s shoulder gently.

Arthur smirks more, a playful gleam filling his eyes. “Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”

“Yes, you do!” Toni sighs, also playful. He collapses on Francis’ lap dramatically, crushing the other man who had been lying on the floor.

Francis yelps, shoving Antonio onto the carpet. “Vous êtes trop lourd!”

* * *

“How ya doin’, bud?” Alfred asks as he steps into Matt’s hospital room, usual grin plastered to his face. His older twin puts down his book in favour of looking at Al, smiling weakly.

“Better, I guess.”

“Cool, cool.” Alfred pulls up a chair, turning the back of it towards Matthew, and practically collapses onto it. He folds his arms on what should be the back rest and places his chin atop of them. He smiles sheepishly. “Whatcha reading?”

“To Kill a MockingBird.”

“Sounds boring,” Al leans back, pouting. “Only been here twenty seconds and you’re already boring me.”

Matthew laughs, flicking Al’s hand. “Shut up.”

“Seriously, haven’t you read that like five times?”

“Three,” Matt corrects, eyes darting up towards Al’s forehead. He leans forward quickly, regretfully wincing as he does so, fingers brushing over the bruise and small cut the resides there. “What did you do?”

Alfred bats his brother’s hand away. “Jeez, I fell, relax- I’m fine.” He swats it away again when Mattie continues to fret over the injury.

“You’re so clumsy, what is it with you and head injuries? I’m surprised you’ve not had a concussion.”

“I have, actually.”

“What? When? You never told me- Why didn’t you tell me? Did you even see a doctor- Actually, no, don’t answer that ‘cause I already know you didn’t.”

Alfred laughs awkwardly. “I couldn’t afford to.” He immediately regrets saying it as he watches Matthew’s lips thin into a line. The taller blond sighs, leaning back against his propped-up pillows.

“…We could always-”

“No. Nope. Don’t even- If you mention euthanasia to me one more time, I will actually kill you myself.” Alfred states, eyeing his brother sternly. Matthew huffs.

“You know by saying ‘I’ll kill you’, it’ll make me ask more, right? That’s the whole point, you’re aware of that, eh? Or did you go through one too many head injuries?”

Al half scoffs, half laughs. “Shut up. I’m not letting you die, okay? Only way you’re leaving this hospital is if you’re fully recovered, not to a hospice, not in a body bag, nothin’. Just you, better, ready to kick life’s ass when you’re back on your feet.”

Matt bites his lip, scanning Al for a moment. “You know, ten-year-old you would’ve killed me in a heartbeat.”

“That’s ‘cause I liked good ol’ sibling rivalry, if you wanted me to kill you now, you shouldn’t have made me like you so much. That’s your own fault, Mattie, I take no responsibility for that one.”

“Awww, you like me, eh?”

“Tell anyone and I’ll stop sneaking in the good maple syrup for you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Matthew’s eyes narrow, but it’s unthreatening as Hell, Al notes.

“Oh, but I would,” Al says as he pulls out a bottle of syrup from his jacket and throws it onto the bed. “Dearest brother dude, I would. I will get you off brand syrup if you even speak a word to anyone about me actually being nice to you.” Matt snorts and picks up the bottle. He opens it and takes a swig, making Al grimace. “That’s gross.”

“Says the guy who can shove ten burgers into his mouth in under a minute and uses chocolate sauce as a topping for his fries.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, Mattie.”

“You two really hate making my job easy, don’t you?” Matt’s nurse, Gilbert, says as he enters the room, shutting the door behind him. “I mean, seriously, full fat syrup straight from the bottle? What? Should I just add type 2 diabetes to your chart now?” He holds up his clipboard to prove his point, hand on his hip. “So not awesome.”

“Your bedside manner’s good today.” Matthew quips sarcastically. “Don’t think of it as full of sugar, think of it as free serotonin for your favourite patient.” He grins knowingly, making Gil sigh. They all know it’s true that Gil has a soft spot for Matt. He’s only actually worked at this hospital for two months, but the blond quickly grew on him. At first, it’s because he was shy and awkward as Hell, constantly stuttering and fumbling, face red, which Gil lowkey thought was adorable. After getting used to one another’s company, however, Matt grew slightly more confident, and now they’re kinda good friends. Gil’s the only other company Matt really gets, and Al can’t always stay long, so it’s nice to know Gil keeps him from getting lonely, considering he is Matt’s fulltime nurse. He’s also the only other person in the world he’s comfortable with, other than Al. In front of everyone else, he goes back to being shy and quiet, most people don’t even notice him. It’s kind of sad, he’d always been ignored throughout school in favour for his louder, more popular twin brother. He didn’t usually have many friends, so Gilbert was a new, fresh change of pace.

“You two are lucky I let you get away with it every week.”

“That’s just because you steal half of it.”

“Not true,” Gil says, even as he reaches his hand out. “But give me some anyway.”

Matthew laughs and passes the bottle to the man, who also takes a swig as he stares at Al from the corner of his eye. He hands the bottle back to Matt, swallowing. “Want me to take a look at that?”

Al moves his fringe over his bruise, shaking his head. “Nah.”

“I’ll do it for free?” Gil watches the American purse his lips before finally nodding and moves towards him, swiping his hair out the way. He examines the cut momentarily before grabbing a wipe and a plaster. He cleans the cut thoroughly then gently places the plaster over it. “Isn’t this like your tenth head injury?” Gil asks as he carefully presses his hands over different parts of Al’s hair, searching for others. Matt snorts behind him making Gil smile, looking momentarily over his shoulder at the Canadian. He looks back towards Al when the other perks up.

“Not my tenth…”

“Uh-huh, well, you’ve got two other lumps on your head so…”

Alfred pouts as Gil moves away, tracing his fingers over the plaster on his forehead. “I could’ve just done that myself.”

“But you didn’t,” Gil smirks cockily. “So, you’re welcome.”

“Thank you.” Matt says. Gilbert smiles at him, eyes gleaming. Matt smiles back sweetly, and Al swears he sees colour come back to his brother’s pale cheeks for a few seconds. He blinks and stands up, suddenly feeling awkward.

“I should get going, my shift starts soon,” He ruffles Matt’s hair a little. “Don’t die whilst I’m gone.”

“Can’t promise anything.”

“Loving your nihilism today, dude.” He chuckles. They’re shared sense of humour is one of Al’s favourite things, he realises, and he grabs his backpack. “I’ll be back tomorrow. See ya.”

“Bye.” Alfred throws them both a salute before leaving. Matthew then looks to Gilbert, who’s grinning at him. “What?”

“To Kill a Mockingbird? Good choice, one of my favourites. Pretty awesome.”

“You read?”

“Well, I didn’t get through nursing school by sitting on my ass, Birdie.” Gil grins as he sits down on the now empty chair. “Got a shelf in my apartment full of books and diaries.”

The Canadian laughs. “Diaries?”

“Pfft, don’t act like you’ve never written one. Just another reason why I’m so awesome. I ain’t ashamed of my diary writing ways.” Gil smiles softly as Matthew falls into a fit of laughter.

* * *

The coffee shop was emptier than usual, Al noted as he fixed a regular an Earl Grey tea, their usual order. He looked over the empty booths and tables, his eyes finally landing on the blond man sitting on one of the stools at the counter. Arthur- Al had learned the man’s name a couple weeks earlier- was typing away at his laptop, as per usual. Al’s not surprised by that, either, as the guy is a writer, something Al had also learned. He finishes making the tea and places it in front of Arthur, who thanks him absentmindedly.

“Whatcha stuck on this time? A word? Spelling? Got writer’s block?”

Arthur hums, also still not fully listening, too distracted, but he mumbles a soft ‘number three’ and Al nods. Writer’s block. That meant… The American pulls open the glass window at the ice cream bar within the shop and scoops up some mint choc chip, placing it in a bowl then next to Arthur. He’s hoping the other will still focus on the work too much to realise he’d be eating ice cream for breakfast, though. Al almost fist bumps when the other just puts his wallet on the table and takes the ice cream silently, eyes still glued to the screen as he eats a spoonful. Fact number ten- Maybe? He’s learned a lot, so he’s lost count and order- Alfred learned about the Brit. He likes to have a ‘proper’ breakfast, so ice cream is usually off the table, but ice cream helps him with writer’s block, and mint chocolate chip it his favourite flavour. Usually if it was a word or spelling, Al would just tell him or Google it on his phone if he didn’t know, give him a few pointers, ideas for lines or phrases, etc. He’d always found Arthur pretty cool, and even bought one of his books a couple weeks after meeting him and finding out his occupation. It was a fantasy book and young adult adventure novel, and Al actually really liked it. He doesn’t read much, but he does like fantasy, heroes, saviours, chosen ones, adventures with fairies, elves, whatever. Some of his favourite books, films, and shows are things like the Lords of the Rings, Star Wars, Games of Thrones, etc. And even though he knows Arthur basically makes bank (He’s seen the man’s sales and knows many of his books are pretty popular), Alfred still utters the words ‘It’s on the house’ and pushes the wallet back over to him. It seems the other doesn’t even hear him. Alfred smiles softly to himself. Arthur’s stubborn as hell, there’s no way he wouldn’t pay, so Al’s kinda glad he isn’t listening, resisting a second urge to fist bump.

Instead, he brews himself a coffee and parks himself against one of the kitchen counters, pulling out his phone. It’s all cracked up and smashed, half the screen doesn’t even work properly, but Al ignores it in favour of reading the news, at least attempting to over the glitchy blackness. He skims over an article about last night’s drug bust done by the ‘police’, his heart dropping. He’d managed to free both himself and his partner last night, but they’d been forced to flee and leave the drugs behind in favour of not getting caught. He hadn’t heard anything from the higherups. Yet. He knew it was coming though, he just prayed they weren’t too pissed off, but considering how much money they’d be losing out on…

“Can I get a coffee to go?” Al looks up at Arthur, who’s standing now, with his stuff all packed up. The barista plasters on a smile and nods, starting on the beverage. “Why so glum?”

“Just the news.”

“Ah,” Arthur nods understandingly. “Not my favourite thing to dwell on, personally. It’s so…”

“Depressing?”

“Was going to go for morbid, but yes.” Al chuckles, humming and leaning across the counter towards Arthur.

“You always gotta be so formal?”

“Do you always have to be so grammatically incorrect?”

“We can’t all be writers, Artie.”

“Not sure that’s a bad thing, considering your aforementioned grammar.”

“Ouch. Way to go for the heart.”

“I do try.”

“Try what? Going for my heart? Good to know.” He winks, smirking at the way Arthur’s face turns slightly red.

“Shut it, git.” Alfred laughs and pulls away to pour Arthur’s coffee once it finishes brewing. Arthur throws some cash on the counter. “There’s enough there for the coffee and the ice cream. Don’t think I’m so hard to fool. Plus, a tip.” He takes the drink from Alfred, eyes narrowing. “And don’t give me ice cream for breakfast ever again.”

“Can’t promise anything.” Alfred refrains from making a comment on how he’d love to give Arthur breakfast again, but in an entirely different context, after a _very_ long night. Instead he just takes the money, albeit begrudgingly. He does note the smirk Arthur makes at winning this round, however, and can’t deny it makes him feel good knowing he _technically_ caused it. He watches as the Brit leaves, waving goodbye before he does so, and so the impatient wait begins until he can see those emerald eyes again.


	2. 2

The first thing Alfred noticed was the silence, deathly and unsettling. It wasn’t unusual for things to be quiet since he lived alone, but this was different, this was chilling. This meant danger. He sees light coming from the living room and stalks through the archway from the hall, floorboards creaking beneath his reluctant weight, urging him to turn back. In the back corner, a man sits in singular armchair, humming contently as Alfred enters the room. The light is coming from the lamp next to the chair, making sure the brunet is well kempt and content under its dim glow. He doesn’t look at Alfred, instead turning the page of the book he’s reading, a book from one of the shelves within the room, Al notes. The teen sucks in a breath, shoulders tensing as he waits for the man to speak. A smile makes its way onto his chiselled face, but he still doesn’t look up. “Alfred,” He starts, in a thick Italian accent. “It is good to see you.”

“Don Roma, how are you?”

“Not good,” The man says, shutting the book as he places it on the nearby coffee table calmly. The Don looks at Alfred now, eyes scanning him attentively. “I almost lost a client today.”

Alfred’s lips thin into a line as he gulps. “Why?” He forces out, trying not to stutter.

Roma leans forward. “Because someone I trusted dearly lost my client’s cargo, and now they’re angry at me because I told them this person that I trusted was my best soldier.” He picks up a glass full of bronze liquid and takes a sip. Alfred recognizes it as his dad’s old scotch. Blue eyes begin to dart between the alcohol and the Don. Alfred feels his heart begin to pound within his chest, the sound of its alarmed, fast-paced beating almost like drums banging loudly against his ears. “Do you know who this person may be, Alfred?”

The words stumble out of the blond before he can stop them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Roma tuts, standing up slowly, flattening down the creases of his expensive, maroon coloured suit as he does so. He shushes Alfred, waving a finger slowly. “I know, deep down, it wasn’t your fault. It was the vigilante’s.” He finishes the drink then places the now empty glass down. “Your partner told me.” Alfred bites his lip and rolls his shoulders back, trying his best to relax. This makes the Don smirk slightly. “Do I frighten you? Surely you are not scared of me, amico?” Al shakes his head quickly but keeps his mouth shut. “Then why are you so tense?” Roma takes his chin and turns his face tamely so the teen’s looking directly into his eyes.

“I’m not.” He tries, but the words are stuttered and shaky.

“You are so much more powerful than I am, and yet you do nothing. Remind me why that is, Alfred.” Al mumbles for a moment making Roma hum. “Louder. I can’t hear you.”

“Because you have people watching my brother…” _And you smell of scotch._

Roma grins, and it almost looks friendly, no one would think he had a single sinister bone his body, and yet- “That’s right, I’m glad you remembered. I have so many people in this city wrapped around my finger. Politicians, police, doctors, nurses… One step out of line and little Matthew’s ‘condition gets worse’.” He makes sure to emphasise the quotes, both of them knowing that if Matt were to die _unnaturally_ , it would be covered up and quickly shrugged off as him dying from his illness. Alfred feels his fists ball up and internally curses, hating how his brother was a pawn in all this, knowing it’s his own fault. Mattie’s never done a single bad thing in his life, has always been kind and caring, has the softest smile and a heart of gold, and here Alfred is, almost getting him killed. Roma continues. “I like you, Alfred. You remind me of my grandsons, especially Feli. So energetic and carefee…” He pauses and smiles fondly, eyes glinting as if he’s somewhere else momentarily. “They’re twins, too. I know Feliciano wouldn’t let anything happen to Lovi, not that I would either. But Feli, poor boy, doesn’t have a single fighting bone in his body. He prefers to nap, eat, and swoon over lovers.” Roma chuckles. “But even he would tear down this city for Lovino. Which is why I know you won’t lay a finger on me, despite how angry you are right now.” The Don strokes his hand through Al’s hair. “Or perhaps I’m overestimating you, considering you couldn’t defeat a single man who _doesn’t_ have powers.”

“You’re not overestimating me, Don Roma, I swear.”

“Usually I’d believe you, but after last night, I’m afraid I’ll need proof…”

“Anything! Just- Just don’t hurt my brother.” Al pleads, eyes desperate. Roma smiles and strokes his fingers through the teen’s hair once more affectionately.

“I won’t,” The Don pauses and gently graces his thumb over Alfred’s cheek, as a parent would a child. “ _If_ you to kill the vigilante.”

Alfred’s eyes widen as he stumbles back slightly. “But I’ve never killed anyone before.”

Roma sighs, placing a hand on the other’s shoulder, pulling him back towards him harshly. He squeezes, grip beginning to hurt. Al tries not to squirm under the pressure. “Nipote, I’m trying to build an empire in this city. When building an empire from the ground up, sometimes there’ll be casualties, that’s just how it goes. I will not let my empire fall apart because of a masked weirdo with a hero complex.” Alfred doesn’t answer, eyes cast to the ground. He’s not even sure if the insult was directed at Greenie or himself, but he isn’t exactly in the position to talk back. The Don goes to move past him, whispering in his ear as he does so. “Do not fail me, Alfred.” He picks up his coat then kisses Alfred’s cheeks in a gentle farewell. “Oh, and- Don’t forget to check on that ill brother of yours. Would be a shame if something happened to him whilst we were speaking.” He grins again, morbid joy meeting his eyes and making them crinkle. Alfred’s heart drops as he watches Roma leave through the arch way, listens as the front door opens and closes, waits until he’s completely sure he’s alone. Only then does the blond pick up the nearest object, throwing it harshly at one of the walls, falling to the floor hopelessly as tears pour from his eyes, cursing at the oncoming panic attack he knows is about to take hold of him.

* * *

Alfred’s heart pounds in his ears and his legs ache as he runs down the hospital corridor to Mattie’s room, pushing past countless staff as politely, but quickly, as possible, all but slamming the door open when he finally arrives at Matt’s room. He heaves slightly but fills with relief when he sees Matthew sat up, alive, book in hand, albeit shocked and confused. “Alfred? Jesus Christ- Are you okay?”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Are you?” Alfred repeats as he grabs Matt’s shoulders, craning his face to look into his brother’s violet eyes before scanning him for any damage. Matt bats him away, concern flooding his features.

“Yes, I’m fine- What’s up with you? You look like shit! No offence.”

“I just- I thought you might be-” Alfred shuts up when Matthew sighs heavily, putting his book down.

“Al, I’m fine. You’ve gotta stop worrying about me.” He nods to the chair next to his bed. “Sit down before you collapse, eh?” It was more of a command than an offer or question, but Al obliges, slumping into the chair with a thud. The chair groans in annoyance under his weight. “What happened?” Matt reaches out and strokes away some tears under Alfred’s puffy eyes.

“Just had a nightmare that something bad happened to you, ‘is all.”

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t look like you’ve slept. Again, no offence.”

Alfred chuckles tiredly. “Long day.”

“How many hours did you work?”

“Not important-”

“Al, how long were you-”

“Visiting hours are over, you know.” They turn to look at Gilbert, who’s leaning against the door frame. He huffs and walks into the room, locking the door behind him. “Seriously, man, I can’t keep letting these things slide. That’s twice in one day you’ve broken the rules.”

“Sorry, Gil. I thought Mattie was…” Al trails off, staring at the nurse. The words seem to echo in his head, haunting him. _I have so many people in this city wrapped around my finger. Politicians, police, doctors, **nurses**_. Suddenly, Al’s heart is in his throat.

“Thought he was what?”

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.” Al says far too quickly.

Gilbert gives him a strange look then shrugs. “Okay, either way, I need you to go before someone sees you. I promise you, he won’t die if you take the night off.”

“Stop talking about me as if I’m not in the room, please.” Matt huffs, making Gil smile apologetically at him. Al ignores him, too focused on Gil’s words. _He won’t die if you take the night off_. Was that a _threat?_ Was Don Roma expecting him to go looking for the vigilante _tonight?_ Was Gilbert even working for Roma? Was it even safe to leave Matthew? If he is working for Roma, maybe that’s why he’s trying to get him to leave.

“I want to stay.” Alfred states boldly.

“What?”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Al-” Matthew interjects.

“I’m not leaving.” He looks at his brother pleadingly. “I need to know you’ll be safe.”

“Al, don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been fine so far. What could happen in one night?”

“I don’t know but I don’t want to risk finding out. Either I stay, or you come home. Permanently. We can set you up with a home carer.”

“Jesus Alfred, that’s way too expensive-”

“I don’t care. I’ll work more hours. I- I can’t let anything happen to you.”

“You’re being paranoid. Besides, that’d mean getting a whole new nurse, I like Gil.” Matt sighs. Gilbert grins proudly, cheeks slightly rosy. He clears his throat and places a hand on Alfred’s shoulder.

“I won’t let anything happen to Matthew, I swear.”

“Why do you work here?”

Gilbert’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“Why do you work here? You’re new, right? So, you worked at a different hospital before, why did you come to this one? And why did you just so happen to be Matt’s nurse?”

“Erm- I don’t know? I got referred? And it paid better? Mattie was just a coincidence?”

“Referred by who? Why does it pay better? Is someone else paying you, do you have some kind of _sponsor?_ You sure it was a ‘coincidence’?”

“Al, what the fuck?” Matthew questions. “Leave him alone. What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“What? Why?”

“Ficken- Alfred, you need to leave. You need sleep.” Gil affirms, going to grab Alfred’s arm, but the other grabs his wrist, twisting it painfully. The nurse yelps, wincing and trying to pull his hand away. Alfred’s grip tightens, eyes laced with threat and venom.

“Alfred!” Matt squeals. “Stop!” Alfred looks at his brother for a moment, debating. He begrudgingly drops his hold on Gilbert, turning to glare at him instead.

“Verdammte scheiße! Ficken!” Gil curses as he holds his wrist, wincing more as he inspects it. “Ich glaube, du hast mir das handgelenk gebrochen!”

“Oh my God- Al- You need to go-”

“But-”

“Now!” Alfred stares at his twin. Matthew hardly raises his voice or gets genuinely angry. Yet his eyes are full of undeniable rage and disappointment. Al blinks away the tears forming in his eyes and quickly exists the room, an empty feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. _I just wanted to keep you safe._

* * *

The streets are empty. Nothing but trash or the occasional stray cat litter the roads tonight. It’s almost like you could drop a pin and be able to hear it from a mile away, not even the sound of cars in the distance can be heard. It’s weird, but all fair game. A maze of brick and concrete, in the slums of the city where the crime usually flourishes. Tonight, though, nothing happens. Nothing goes bump in the night. Not even a single peep comes from any of the usual offenders. It’s almost like crime took the night off, or perhaps the work of a certain green and black masked man has actually started scaring people into putting down their ski masks in favour of a TV remote or book. Either way, Alfred’s hoping that the lack of crime isn’t enough to deter the vigilante from showing up. A game of cat and mouse sounds fun right about now, the rotting maze down below a playground of dead ends and broken bottles. The criminal teeters on the ledge of an old apartment building. He’s pretty sure it’s abandoned, or close to being abandoned, but the noise of urban life below his feet urges him to reconsider that theory.

Alfred lazily kicks a balloon canister off of the roof, eyes scanning the streets below for anything out of the ordinary. It’s mostly dark in this neighbourhood, the electricity gets cut off in this area a lot, comes and goes all the time. None the less, no one actually knows if it’s because residents can’t afford it or if the city council has just given up on providing areas of poverty with essentials at this point. Not that people care enough about it to actually change anything either way. No one important, anyway. At least not important in the classist and political sense. If you’re not rich and/or some snobby politician, no one cares what you have to say about the poverty issue, or any issue, for that matter. It’s tiring, unfair, and unjust, Al knows. But he has his own problems, and he isn’t exactly a hero to begin with. Hell, he contributes to keeping this shithole a shithole by helping the local gangs, would be a dick move to then go play activist and act like he’s not part of the problem. Half the people in this area are hooked on the shit he sometimes protects. So, yeah, Alfred F. Jones is no hero and he never will be. That option dived out the window long before he even saw it. It’s not like he wouldn’t want to be one, but if you’re gonna play villain, you might as well see it through to the cold, bitter end. It’s not like redemption is easy, and even if it was, forgiveness is harder. All the people he’s hurting by doing this? Sure, he’s doing it to keep his brother alive, but it’s still selfish. People are still suffering, people that won’t forgive him. Is one man worth the suffering of so many? In Alfred’s eyes, yes. In their eyes, however? Probably not. Or maybe he’s just scared of the confrontation it’ll bring, how he’d be forced to take responsibility for his actions, face the people he’s harmed. Maybe he’s being selfish again because he doesn’t want that. Maybe it’s not that he _can’t_ become a hero, but because he knows that no matter how many people he saves, it’ll never make up for all the people he’s already condemned by doing what he does. And maybe he’s terrified of that. If you can’t ever really make up for the pain you caused, why try to make up for it at all? At least this way Matthew’s safe. If that’s the only pro to this whole thing, so be it.

The entrance door to one of the complexes across the street opens, and a scruffy man walks out, cigarette tucked between his lips. He pulls out a lighter, hand shaking as he raises it to the ashy end. The man takes a drag, sighing contently. Smoke begins to dance around him and Al grimaces from his position, he doesn’t have to even smell it to feel the gagging sensation in his throat. His dad used to smoke, and all of Al’s clothes used to be drenched in that ugly, putrid stench. He could never get it out; even after his death, it took months for the house to start smelling normal again. On the bad days, it lingered, almost tauntingly. Haunting him. Sometimes he’d forget that dad was gone, would smell it and feel his palms growing sweaty, the anxiety pool into his stomach thinking that dad was home, that dad was _drunk_. That dad would be in a bad mood. That dad would come into his room, the smell of scotch, whiskey, or beer fresh on his breath. The shouting would begin, then the shoves would come, then the punching and the kicking and crying and-

Al chokes, throat feeling immensely dry. He takes a sip of water from the bottle he keeps in one of his pouches and wipes his lips, head swirling with intrusive thoughts, each harder to push away then the last. Instead, he tries to think of long, sandy blonde curls, a warm smile, soft eyes, and a lullaby. His mom tucking him and Mattie into bed with a warm glass of milk when they were young. Alfred used to be terrified of the dark, scared of any ghosts that could be in the old house back in California, he’d pile into Matt’s bed and hold his older brother tightly. The words “I’ll protect you!” were always used as his excuse, but they all knew it’s because Matthew was the one protecting him, really, or at least Alfred felt like he was. Still feels like that sometimes.

He thinks of long strolls on the beach, his mother helping him build sandcastles. They once built a whole kingdom he dubbed proudly as “Spades”. He even crowned himself King. “Like from a card deck?” She asked, which made Alfred’s eyes travel to the spade he’d used to collect the sand in embarrassment, nodding in agreement that, yes, _that_ was the reason. His extremely intelligent idea was based off of a card deck and _not_ the type of digging tool he’d used.

He remembers how she always smelt of pine, ginger, and cinnamon at Christmas. She had these scented candles she got out every year to make the whole house smell like that, but it lingered on her the most. It also didn’t hurt that she’d spend a whole day at the start of December making gingerbread pieces so Matthew and Alfred could build a gingerbread house together, which quickly became a tradition. He remembers watching Christmas movies with his parents back then, back when his dad was kind and caring, when his violet eyes were bright and full of love, how they would crinkle when he told a particularly bad dad joke. They’d curl up on the couch, all under the same blanket. Alfred used to curl up next to his mom, bury his face in her side on Christmas Eve as he drifted the sleep. She was always so warm; it was always easy to feel safe and relaxed tucked under her arm.

He remembers her at all his football games, never missed a single one. She’d be right there in the middle row every time, cheering him on, waving the same tacky banner at every game. He used to hate that banner. Now? He’d do anything to see her waving it one more time.

Even though his heart feels somewhat whole, and there’s a warmth in his chest brought on by the memories of his mother, there’s still an aching feeling. A tugging at his lips, pulling them downwards as they quiver, the feel of his throat becoming sore, his jaw clenching a tad bit too painfully, and the all too familiar sting of his eyes as they watered.

Alfred squeezes his eyes shut, focusing intently on the scraggy man below when he opens them again, urging himself to concentrate on literally anything other than the sick, nostalgic game his mind is playing. The stranger drops his used cigarette, not bothering to put out the small flame. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, clear bag with white power inside. Alfred shrinks back, now uncomfortable. He forces himself to look away, eyes scanning over some of the alleyways, then some of the other rooftops. He halts abruptly, eyes narrowing at the darkness. Across the street, a few roofs down, he can see a timid green glow. Exhaling slowly, he tries to focus more, tries to feel his power run through his veins and focus his energy. He’d realised he had enhanced vision a few weeks after getting his lightning powers, but he was still a bit rocky. It’s not like he had anyone to teach him how to use or control them, so he usually tried to avoid the ones he wasn’t used to whilst in the field, not that he got much time to practice outside of ‘work’. Better safe than sorry though, as the saying goes. Not that he hasn’t already had accidents, there have been far too many times he’s experienced X-Ray vision at the wrong moment without meaning to activate it. Seen some things he wasn’t meant to, things he wishes he could unsee. At any rate, whatever it was his neighbours were doing that one time probably takes the cake.

Regardless, his breathing technique seems to work enough for him to make out a figure, crouching on the ledge, ready to leap into the alley below. Alfred grins, moving away and doing a running jump across the street and onto the roof opposite him. _Praise cheese for superpowers._ He sprints down the other rooftops, climbing and jumping his way across the various levels. Coming to a halt, he hides behind a chimney, ducking his head around the crumbling brick wall as he watches the figure make their way into the alley below. Alfred stalks quietly towards the ledge, peering down as he crouches. He inwardly fist bumps, recognising the figure as Greenie.

‘Greenie’ is talking to someone. Well, not _talking,_ as he’s silently listening to a man spill whatever info he knows, clearly terrified. And upside down. He’s hanging by his ankles via some kind of metal rope being fed through a bar on a nearby fire escape, Al traces the cord, seeing that it leads back to a belt of pouches around Greenie’s waist. The Hanging Man, Al calls him, is a sobbing and quivering mess, clearly shitting himself enough to be snitching on every Tom, Dick, and Harry he’s ever met, regardless of what secret they even had. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what the vigilante actually wants to know- _I mean, who would? The guy doesn’t even speak, how could anyone?_ \- So, he’s just spitting out everything he knows, from actual crimes he’s witnessed, to who got who knocked up. It’s pathetic, really, in an ‘If I were this guy’s friend, I wouldn’t trust him with anything’ kind of way, the type to screw over everyone else to save his own ass. Something the guy says must satisfy Greenie, though, because he unhooks the man. He lowers him a bit first, then just lets him drop to the ground with a loud thud and a sobbed groan. At the press of a button, the cord comes quickly rewinding itself back into one of Greenie’s pouches with a snapping sound, clanking against the rusting metal of the fire escape as it does so. It reminds Al of those vacuum cleaners with cords that rewind themselves, too. The guy gets up, taking off out of the alley immediately.

Greenies jumps onto a dumpster, reaching for the fire escape’s ladder and climbing onto the landing hastily, but with a strange sense of graceful agility that makes it look easy to do, and makes him look _flawless. Not in an attractive way. Just. A ballerina if the ballerina was Batman,_ Al thinks, cheeks now burning. Either way, he doesn’t look nearly as intimidating as he did when he was ‘questioning’ the Hanging Man.

The vigilante ascends the stairs, combat boots banging against the metal, making more clanging sounds, as well as wet squeaks because of residue rainwater. He hoists himself onto the roof from a window ledge on the last level, making Alfred duck back silently, eyes narrowing. This was his chance, the vigilante had his back to him, was only a short jump away, and was _powerless_ , like Roma said. He stood no chance against Alfred. Not if he harnessed his powers, a shot of lightning here, enhanced strength there. He’d fought the guy before, now he knew what to expect. Watch the hands, and for any batons or sticks or whatever it was he had hit him with last time. Also watch his feet, so he doesn’t knock him on his ass again. Pretty basic, actually. They’re, like, the top rules of fighting an opponent. Hands, feet, weapons. What else could you need to look out for?

Alfred waits a moment for Greenie to move further onto the roof, then dives across the alleyway and onto the other building, fists fully charged with blue. Al tackles the other before he can react, wrapping his arms securely around his waist and sending bolts of electricity straight into his abdomen. The other squirms in pain but remains quiet, and Alfred realises he must have something in his helmet that blocks any sounds he makes. Arms also trapped under Alfred’s own, he kicks his legs hopelessly, trying hard to kick backwards at Alfred’s shins. Alfred actually laughs, weirdly. Not in a menacing way, it just feels like play fighting. Well, for him. He shocks the guy again and has to move his head back as the other tires to desperately headbutt him. He hears a clicking sound and furrows his eyebrows, then gasps in pain, cursing as something sharp cuts his thigh. Fuck. He wasn’t watching the hands, which had been right by the guy’s pouches. In his shock, his grip around the other loosens.

Greenie hastily moves out of his hold, rolling onto his side to face Al, boot immediately swinging at Al’s crotch. Alfred catches it, eyes wide. He panics, twisting the other’s foot. He hears a cracking sound and winces, realising his must’ve tapped into his enhanced strength and broken the other’s ankle as easily as someone would a twig. Greenie tenses up, trashing slightly, and Alfred almost feels bad. Another foot comes flying at his chest, just kicking at him repeatedly so Greenie can push himself away. He pulls himself up off the floor once he’s out of Al’s hold, only stood on his right foot, careful not to put any weight on his left side. He grabs two black escrima sticks from holsters situated on either side of his hips, moving into a defensive position as best as he can with a broken ankle.

Al stands, smiling awkwardly. “Sorry about your ankle, I wasn’t trying to break it…” The other seems to pause, head tilting as if bewildered at Alfred’s statement. I mean, Al can’t blame him, they’re supposed to be fighting and Al apologised for hurting him. Sends mixed signals. Greenie’s honestly kinda cute like that, it reminds Alfred of a kitten or puppy the way his head tilts like that, silently confused. He smiles more, not as awkward now, taking in the sight.

It’s cut short, however, as Greenie quickly recovers from the confusion, swinging at Alfred with one of his sticks. Alfred blocks it, going to punch the other with his free hand, but is also blocked. It causes the vigilante to stumble slightly, having difficulty fighting without proper balance. Alfred’s eyes dart down to the man’s ankle, then back to his mask. His lips thin into a line. Fuck it. If there weren’t mixed signals before, there certainly would be now. He swipes one of his legs against Greenie’s right leg harshly, tripping him up and making him collapse onto the ground, helmet banging back against the concrete with a smack. Al takes advantage, taking the other’s escrima sticks and throwing them across the roof, scattering them in opposite directions. The vigilante scurries to get up, but Alfred places his foot roughly against his chest, keeping him down. Greenie makes a gasping motion, hands gripping at Al’s boot in distress. Alfred only applies more pressure, he almost grimaces at his own actions but keeps himself focused. It’s now that Alfred remembers what his purpose is here, that it’s not just a fight. It’s not a silly game of cat and mouse, it’s nothing _fun_. Roma’s words ring in his ears. _Kill the vigilante_.

Everything stops, and the world comes crashing down momentarily as he tries to process what’s about to happen, what needs to happen. No, it’s not fun. It’s cruel and rotten and makes him sick to his stomach. But he has to do this, if he doesn’t Matthew will suffer the consequences. He’s all Alfred has left; he can’t let anything happen to him. He knows it’s selfish and can already feel the guilt bubbling in his chest, the shame, the grief. An unknown feeling eats away at him, which he assumes is a feeling you only know if you’re about to murder someone. Hell, what’s this guy ever done but help people? How many people has he saved? Stopped from being murdered or mugged or whatever? How many men and women has he rescued who had been walking alone at night in bad neighbourhoods? How many kids had he saved? How many people had he talked down from a rooftop? He must hate the sad irony of now being killed on one. Alfred wants to think he’s saving someone, too, but how many people will he kill and condemn in the long run by taking this one man’s life now? He grits his teeth, tears of frustration and anger pricking his eyes as he presses down harder, watching the hero thrive in pain, gloved hands still clawing at Al’s boot.

Alfred bends down, scanning the other closely before moving away. He removes his foot. The vigilante takes a moment to breathe before he scrambles to his feet. He slouches, stumbling for balance, hands gripping at his chest in pain. He tries to rush Alfred, in a feeble attempt to do _anything_ to harm the other. Alfred just grabs him and tosses him away, sending him stammering towards the edge of the roof. The blond strides over, taking a hold of his shoulders. He realises now that he’s slightly taller, probably about two inches or so, but he’s definitely bulkier, and his shoulders are broader. He thinks he must look kind of intimidating right now. He doesn’t even know if he wants that to be the case or not. I mean, it’s not like it’ll matter soon… But does he really wanna terrify this guy? In his last moments? Is that the kind of man he wanted to be?

Alfred doesn’t have time to ponder as Greenie goes to punch his chest again. He catches his fist, twisting it so that the hero is forced to bend uncomfortably to avoid it hurting more than it needs to. Alfred stares down at him, hoping that the mask over his eyes stops any tears from falling onto his rosy cheeks. _It’s too cold to die tonight_ , he thinks, even as he knows exactly what he’s about to do. _It’s for Matthew_ , his mind repeats, over and over like a broken record. A song he’s played a thousand times and more, only it’s never played along to him _taking someone’s life_. “I’m sorry,” He whispers softly, breath coming out as mist. The vigilante’s free hand latches onto Al’s shoulder, fumbling in an attempt to clutch his costume as tightly, to hold on for as long as possible. He shakes his head vigorously, and the words almost die in Alfred’s throat at the tragic sight. “I have to do this.” He finishes, voice cracking. Greenie shakes his head more, but Alfred ignores his silent pleas.

Alfred seizes the front of the other’s uniform tightly, and hoists him up to his feet, forcefully enough that he almost holds him in the air. Greenie’s feet just barely touch the ground as Al holds him over the edge. He hesitates, watching Greenie’s hands clasp his forearms, a final pitiful attempt to hang on to his life. Then, Alfred let’s go.

He can’t bring himself to look, but he can hear the sounds of the hero slamming against the fire escape a few times as he falls, the clang of metal meeting dead weight as he drops from one level to another. The sound rings throughout the alley below before there’s a final loud thud, followed by a smack that echoes twice. Then it’s quiet. Nothing. Empty space in the night. Fitting, really, considering how empty Alfred now feels. It feels like everything and nothing all at once, like every negative emotion he’s ever felt has come raining down on him, yet he’s completely numb. Everything suddenly feels heavy, and the weight of exhaustion caused by two days of not sleeping doesn’t help. His feet move themselves, dragging him across the rooftop and onto another, to a different fire escape, so he doesn’t have to see what he’s done.

When he gets home, he picks up the phone with shaky hands, stripping himself of his costume as quickly as possible. The person on the other end picks up almost immediately, despite the late hour. “Alfred!” The voice says cheerily, making the teen want to sob right then and there. Fuck being cheery right now. He swallows the thick lump in his throat, begging his voice not to quiver, not to show weakness.

“It’s done.” He says simply, then hangs up. He’s not in the mood for formalities, even if Roma lectures him about it later. He tosses his phone away, not really caring where it lands and collapses on his bed, curling in on himself as he grips his covers. He curses as his discarded device immediately vibrates, lighting up the dark room. He grabs it, huffing as he answers the call. “I’m sorry for not saying goodbye.” Alfred starts.

There’s a pause. A soft voice comes out, almost like honey or syrup. “What?”

“Oh,” The blond’s stomach drops. “Hey, Mattie.” He says as casually as possible, whilst his free hand clenches his comforter, trying to focus on the feel of the fabric between his fingers rather than everything else.

There’s another pause, slightly longer this time. “Are you okay?”

Al nods then mentally slaps himself realising his brother can’t see him. “Mmhmm, fine.” He grits his teeth. “I just-” He tries to breathe, but it comes out as a choking sound. “I- I’m fine- I’m good- I’m fine-” He raises his fist to his mouth, biting his hand in an attempt to keep back the sobs trying to claw themselves out of his throat. He clenches his eyes shut.

“Alfred- Al- What’s up? Hey- What’s wrong?”

Alfred shakes his head, feeling warm tears fall into the crease of his eyes, trying to clench them shut even more, so much so that it’s almost painful. He bites harder into his hand, then exhales too sharply when he moves it away. “I feel-” He stops and hiccups, like a child does when they cry. “I feel so _guilty_ Mattie-” He can’t keep it in any longer, and the dam breaks all to quickly, sobs escaping him as he curls up more. “What I- What _I_ _did_ \- It was _bad_ , it was so bad, Mattie-”

“Hey- Hey, hey, hey- Look, if- If this is about-”He pauses again, and Al can hear shuffling on the other end. “If this is about Gil, it’s okay. He’s not mad at you.”

“No, no- Mattie, no-”

“Alfred, it’s okay. You were paranoid, you had no sleep, you’re clearly sorry about what happened… He forgives you.” Alfred covers his mouth, trying not to let out a pained scream. The next words hit him like a truck. _“Besides, you thought I was in danger. You did it to protect me. You were trying to keep me safe, it’s okay.”_ It’s different hearing Matthew say that. He just wished his brother knew what had actually happened, but he can’t bring himself to tell the other, can’t admit it. Can’t bring himself to face what would happen if he did, the hatred his brother may have for him if he knew what he’d done. He wouldn’t be saying that if he knew, that’s for sure. “I don’t understand it, not really. Just- Just take care of yourself, eh? Get some sleep, I’ll be okay if you take less shifts. Maybe take the day off? You sound like you need it.”

“I can’t-”

“Alfred. Take the day off, please.”

Al sighs shakily, voice a coming out in a whimper. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Al.”

“Night, Mattie.” He shifts, listening as the call ends. Then everything goes silent again, leaving him alone with his thoughts. The weight of his guilt drags his eyelids shut, all his tears had left him drained and fatigued. It seemed so easy to sleep; it was calling to him. That’s all he wanted to do right now, slip into an unconscious abyss, close to death. Drown out his thoughts by not being conscious enough to hear them. Drown them out before they drown him.

As Alfred feels his consciousness finally begin to fade away, one last thought echoes in the silence, with the image of the hero lying cold on the ground. _How many mothers had he saved, so they could live to see another day with their sons?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this chapter's one of those "Fuck it, it's getting posted how it is" ones. It's not my best work, but I still hope you enjoy :)


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter to keep you fed until I post a longer chapter :)

Boots padded against the ground, stomping through countless puddles that littered the concrete sidewalks. Barely any streetlights were even on, leaving the two men in darkness as they sped down various roads and alleys. Some moments they would split up, only to fall back together, lost in the maze, colder and more frantic each time they found one another again. They would huff, shake their heads and shoot off in different directions. Very few words were exchanged, their lungs began to ache in the chill of night, noses sniffling, cheeks red and burning even as sweat drenched their hair. Only their running kept them from practically freezing to death in the Winter air. They came together again, only for the paler of the two to go past, stopping and flashing his torch into a nearby alley. He squints into the darkness, then gasps loudly. It comes out far too shaky.

Gilbert immediately takes off sprinting down the passage. “He’s over here!” He calls out to his partner, and Francis comes chasing after him. They all but collapse by the vigilante’s side.

Gilbert moves to pick him up quickly, but Francis slaps his hands away. “Your wrist!” His accent is thicker than usual, stress flooding into his voice. Gilbert moves back, standing and running back down the alley instead.

“I’ll get the car!”

The blond only nods, picking the hero up. He begins walking down the passage. He shivers, goosebumps scratching their way up his arms, making his hairs stand on end, making his teeth chatter. He pulls the man clad in black closer to him. Gilbert’s already pulled up by the time he’s reached the end of the alley and helps him move the vigilante into the back of the car. They clamber in soon after and Gilbert immediately puts on the heating as he reverses out of his space. Droplets of sweat race down his face as he pants, throwing off his jacket. Francis is in no better shape, tying his frizzy hair into a quick, messy bun and pulling out some deodorant from the glove box, a strain of worried curses falling from his mouth that Gilbert’s brain is too tried to translate.

The moment they get to Arthur’s penthouse, they place him on the couch, and begin pulling out every single piece of stashed medical supplies. Gilbert strips Arthur of his black “uniform”, yanking off his own wet shirt over his head, shivering as he does so. Droplets of residue rainwater fall from his tousled hair as he shakes his head, an attempt to warm up. He grabs some wipes and quickly sanitizes his hands, then pulls of some blue gloves. He checks Arthur pulse, fingers pressing firmly against the pale skin of his neck, careful as his hands shake. He’s not so sure they do so because of the cold. “Are you sure you can do this with your wrist sprained?”

“Do I have a choice?” He stares at Francis momentarily, then looks back at Arthur. “He’s _alive_. Barely. Get some blankets and put on the heating.” The French man bites his lip, nodding. He hesitates, then speed walks away from the living space. Gilbert curses under his breath, moving forward. “You better not die on us or I’ll kill you, du kleine scheiße.”

Francis comes back into the living area about an hour later, watching silently as Gilbert packs up. He swallows thickly. “Is- Is he-”

Gilbert looks at him, face unreadable. “He’s alive. He’ll live. I did what I could. Your armour’s good for something.” He picks up the chest piece and throws it at the other, watching the other fumble to catch it. “If it hadn’t been for that, and his helmet, he would’ve bled out internally long before we got to him. Hell, he could’ve died on impact if his head hit the ground.”

“On impact?”

“Injuries likes this…He came from a rooftop. Must’ve hit a few things on the way down,” He gestures vaguely at the bruises that litter his body. “Probably the fire escape.”

“I don’t suppose you think he fell?”

Gil shakes his head, something morbid and solemn taking over his features. “Don’t even have to check the grapple’s still working for that one. See, here,” He traces a finger carefully along Arthur’s abdomen, a large burn spreads its way across the expanse of skin, curving off into different directions and branches, similar to that of a lightning strike burn. “Not to mention, his broken ankle.” His lips thin into a line. “I say broken, it’s like someone just fucking snapped it.”

“Snapped it?” Francis says, placing his hand gently against the burn. It’s still warm under his fingertips.

“Yeah- Ficken- I- I’ve never seen a bone broken so cleanly, so quickly and easily. Like it was a fucking twig.”

“Do you think-” The blond stops himself, fingers tracing the burn.

Gil stares at it, expression once again unreadable. “Ja. Lightning man.”

Francis nods, sombre. “Lightning man.” He repeats.

“And, if I didn’t know any better…” Gilbert nods towards Arthur’s ankle. “I’d say the guy who did this had some kind of enhanced strength.”

Francis stares at Gilbert, mouth agape. “So, not just lightning, but super strength? Vous devez plaisanter avec moi, and that’s just the one’s we _know_. For all we fucking know, he could basically be Superman!”

A sadness fills Gil’s eyes as is gaze falls to the floor. “And Superman just tried to kill our friend. Not awesome, Clark, not awesome.” He goes to put the medical supplies away before Francis stops him.

“Ton poignet, mon ami.”

“I don’t care about it right now, ich bin zu müde.” Gil murmurs, eyelids drooping. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

“Non.” Francis sighs. He takes grabs an ice packet from a nearby cooler, shoving it into Gil’s hands. “Keep it on for…” He bites his lip, looking at Gilbert who smiles, albeit tiredly.

“Twenty minutes, at least.”

Francis nods. “Oui, that. Lie on the other couch. I’ll wrap your hand afterwards, even if you’re asleep by then.”

Gil rolls his eyes but obliges, collapsing onto the couch to the right of Arthur. He rets his arms above his head after making sure the ice packet encloses as much of his swollen wrist as possible. His eyes immediately flutter shut as he lets out a breath, a soft wish falls from his lips. A wish that when he wakes up, he hopes to see his friend’s emerald eyes open, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Tumblr if you want @Hetaliafucker


	4. Not A Chapter

Sorry not a chapter I just. I'm so happy. The show is back and!!!! Omgggg!!! Anyway yeah, that was it, I'm just fanning out. I also have a job now so I don't know how regularly I can update but I'll try to get the next chapter out by next Monday or Tuesday, so look out for that one friends 😃💕💕💕


	5. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert helps Alfred recover, slowly but surely.

He took a week off. And, to put it ‘lightly’, it _sucked_. Alfred had spent the entire time in bed, only got up to change once, out of his uniform, which he shoved under his bed, and to go to the bathroom or get some water. He stopped doing so after a few days. He didn't eat, didn't have the stomach for it. If he tried, he'd vomit at the image of seeing the hero lying cold, the sound of his bone snapping when Alfred _broke him_. The sound of him slamming against the fire escape as he fell. The smack of his helmet on cold, wet concrete. They all went through him, made him retch. At least an empty stomach meant he couldn't actually throw up. Wouldn't eat even if that wasn't the case, the pain, the starvation, felt too _good_. The fatigue, the faintness, the nearly collapsing, it all felt _right_. After all, _villains don't get to be forgiven_ , aren't allowed to have it easy or not feel the consequences of their actions. He _deserved_ this. Deserved the pain. Greenie will never get to eat again, so why should he?

Roma gave him a significant bonus for taking out the vigilante, which made up for the week off and also scrapped a good amount off Mattie's bill, which was just about the only good thing that came from this whole mess.

Everything else felt... Invisible, _numb._ He couldn't even move most days, just stared at the ceiling, his cheeks stained with week old tears. A permanent dull tint had melted into his electric blues, destroying any light in its path, devastating the lands of his joy and forests of his ambitions like hot molten, leaving only a grey ashy colour in its wake. Eventually, even his thoughts stopped, nothing came or went, no thoughts buzzed around hastily. The time he spent staring up, slipping in and out of consciousness, had dragged on, a purgatory made of his pain. At first, he hadn't even realised how long it had been, just barely managing realise when it had fallen dark outside and when it had turned light again. The glow of streetlights and the moon would sometimes creep past his blinds and into his room, leaving hues of white and blue as his only company. Now and again, a car would pass, or it would rain, but they're about the only sounds that his ears processed. Everything else was quiet. Silent. Deathly. The world didn't exist outside this room, Alfred's not even sure the room or himself existed sometimes. Just him in his small abyss; waiting for something and nothing all at once.

As if on cue, his phone begins to vibrate against the sheets on his bed. He doesn’t lift a hand to answer until the third time it rings, but even then, it takes all of his energy to pick it up, patting around the bed to even find it. Honestly, he thought it was dead, like everything else in the room. He reluctantly answers and puts it to his ear. Not a single word leaves his lips, however. He waits instead. He’s always waiting, it seems. After a few seconds of awkward silence, a voice finally calls to him, a shimmer of light in the darkness. "Alfred?"

Matthew is quiet, slow in the way he speaks, careful and cautious. The line crackles slightly. Alfred doesn't reply, so Matthew continues. "...Are you okay? You haven't visited or called or anything...I was trying to give you space but...I'm worried." A few seconds go by of more silence. Alfred's mind is still far too blank. It doesn't process the words, hardly even acknowledges them. "Alfred? Are you there?" Another pause then- "If you don't answer, I'm sending someone to check on you." Matthew listens for another moment just in case. Upon hearing nothing, barely even his brother's breathing, he nods to himself. "I'm sending someone over...I love you, okay? Just hold on. You're going to be okay." He hangs up then, and for the first time in days, a single thought flutters into Alfred's mind, pained and whimpering. _I don't want to be okay._

* * *

Arthur hadn't opened his eyes. Hadn't moved. He only breathed. And he was lucky he was even doing that. It frightened them, not knowing when he'd wake up, _if_ he did. The first day had them restlessly waiting in anticipation for him to wake up. He never did. When they weren't next to him, Gilbert and Francis were anxiously pacing, only eating to make sure the other did, only sleeping if one of them stayed up to make sure Arthur wouldn't slip away in his unconscious state, and even then they got no real rest, too nervous, too frightened. By the end of the week, the men were just getting by on caffeine and their own adrenaline, or perhaps it was just the anxiety- It was hard to tell at that point. They'd both taken the week off. Francis had closed his boutique and Gilbert had called in about a family emergency to be Arthur's fulltime nurse, hoping Matthew would be fine with just Alfred's company for the next week, and praying he wouldn't be too anxiety ridden around a temporary nurse.

"How's your wrist?" Francis asks softly, slumping down next to Gilbert and nudging his knee against the other's as he held out a mix of hot chocolate and more coffee.

Gilbert took the beverage tiredly. "It'll take another couple of weeks to heal, but fine."

Francis nods. "How did you sprain it again?"

Gilbert shifted, glancing away. "Tripped at work."

The blond man chuckles. "Tu es si maladroit."

"Ja..." Gil's phone rings abruptly. He pulls it from his pocket, standing hastily and excusing himself when he notices the caller. He rushes to the guest room, closing the door as he answers. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Matthew replies, smile evident in his voice. Then a frown. "But I need to ask a favour..."

"Ja, ja, anything." Gil drops onto the bed, hand combing through his white locks momentarily. He lies on his back, sighing. "It's good to hear your voice. So gut..."

He can hear the smile again, but it fades as quickly as it came this time, too. "I need you to check on Al- If you can- Sorry, I- I know I'm asking a lot but-"

The German sits up at this. "Check on him? Have you not seen him?"

"Not for a week, not since..." He trails off and Gil’s stomach flips uneasily. He knew what Matthew was trying not to refer to.

"Then-" Gil shifts, biting his lip and glaring at the floor. "Who's been keeping you company?"

"No one."

"Ficken-"

"Non- I mean- It's not your fault- And- The nurse I have now, she's kind- Not as good as you but..."

Gil smirks. "Well, duh. I'm awesome."

Matthew laughs a little. "Keep feeding that ego and I'll keep her as my nurse permanently."

Red eyes narrow, tone dropping playfully. "You wouldn't."

"I might."

Gil huffs, chuckling. He shakes his head, silver hair tousling gently. He reaches up playing with a strand and frowns. "I still don't like that you were alone."

"You had a family emergency, right? It's not your fault."

"What about Alfred? Is he okay?" A heavy silence follows the question, and Gil shrinks back, almost regretful of asking. "Stupid question, sorry," Gil mumbles. "You wouldn't be asking me to check on him if he was...When should I go?"

"...Can you go now? If that's okay? I know you're probably dealing with a lot already..."

Gilbert sucks in a sharp breath. He worries his lip, thinking about his fallen friend in the next room. "I don't know if now's a good time..." Anxiety pools in his stomach. It shouldn't take more than an hour at most, but anything could happen in an hour. Would Arthur be okay? Would Francis be able to handle it alone if something did happen? But was Alfred okay? Was Alfred even _alive?_ It's not like him to not see Mattie, and for a week no less. He couldn't send Francis, too many questions. Not that the man would leave Arthur anyway. For two people that argue as much as they do, they do have an unbreakable bond. Neither would admit it, but at least Francis was easier to read. He cares too deeply sometimes. He'd do it for all his friends. Toni, Arthur, Gil, the lot of them- Sit by them every day even if they’re in a coma, watching over them, stand with them through thick and thin. A fierce protector, perhaps a guardian angel. It's both a characteristic Gil finds he's grateful for and worried by. How much would Francis give to help a friend? When would he stop? Would he know how? Could he? Could he stop before he gives too much of himself, exhausts himself? Is that- Is that what happened to Alfred? He didn't seem... _Stable_ last time he saw him. Gil doesn't even need to look at his wrist to realise that. It was the deep purple bags under Alfred's tired eyes, the fear and uncertainty deep within the ocean blues, the restlessness, the movements too tense and too stiff for his own good. No sleep, only worry for his sick brother. Francis and himself were barely scraping by this week, how long had Al been at this? Over a year? Alone? No friends, no more family- Mattie told him what happened to their parents- Working all day to pay off an ever-rising bill. Gil couldn't imagine, he already feels exhausted, already wants to snap. And he hasn't dealt with half the shit Alfred has. He sighs heavily- More of a huff, really. "When's the last time you spoke to him? You haven't seen him for a week, but have you heard anything from him?"

"I called him a few minutes ago. Someone picked up but it was just breathing, and I could barely hear that."

"That's creepy as fuck."

"Tell me about it...So I called you...If you can't go, I can send someone el-"

"Do you trust anyone else? Know anyone else well enough?" There's a long pause and Gil nods, more to himself than anything. "I'll go."

"Are- Are you sure? You really don't have to if it's too much!"

"You're my patient. 'Bout time I actually did something to help you. A week is pushing it." Both for Mattie and his wallet. Rent's due this week and he's a bit short after a week of unpaid leave. He'd get Arthur to pay anyway when he wakes up. _When,_ not _if,_ because he's not fucking letting him die after all this shit. Serves him right for being careless, for going against a superpowered criminal with no idea what to expect. He should pay for Francis and Gil's new caffeine addiction whilst he's at it. But that's mostly just a salty joke turned to anger from worry. Arthur was pretty stupid though. Almost getting himself killed, worrying his friends, _dummkopf_ \- He just wants him to be okay. He wouldn't admit it, like the rest of the group, he's too stubborn and prideful. But he still _cares_.

"Thank you- Thank you so much- Just- Be careful okay?"

Gil barks out a laugh. "Don't mention it, and I know- I will. Still got one wrist I don't want sprained."

"Right, sorry." Matthew winces.

Gilbert laughs again. "Don't apologise, didn't even hurt."

"Is that what the long string of German curses were for? It not hurting?" Matthew smirks.

"Shut up." The nurse pouts. He heads out the room, going to the penthouse entrance and slipping on his shoes. "I'll get there as soon as I can."

"Thanks again- Really- And-" Another pause. Matthew shakes his head. "Nevermind- Nothing, just thank you."

The German feels an ounce of curiosity for whatever Matthew didn't say but shrugs it off. "I'll see you soon, I promise. Auf wiedersehen."

"Goodbye, Gil."

Gilbert hangs up, turning to Francis, who's staring at him. "I need to do something for a patient. Will you be okay?"

Francis nods and shrugs. "We're out of wine..."

"I'll pick some up." Gilbert says as he chuckles. Trust Francis to prioritise alcohol at a time like this. To be fair, they’re all heavy drinkers, though he himself has been taking a break whilst caring for Arthur. Be a pretty bad friend if he let his pal die because he wasn’t fully sober.

"Merci."

"Kein problem, you look like you could use some."

"Grossier! J’ai toujours l’air belle!"

"Mmhmm, ja, sure." Gil smirks cheekily, then leaves before Francis can yell at him for his sarcasm. Though he imagines he's already dramatically dropping onto the couch, offended.

* * *

The house was eerie. He couldn't see any lights on, and though it was the middle of the night, Gilbert doesn't suspect that's why. He hesitantly makes his way up the porch steps. They groan under his weight, making him shudder along with the howling wind. He knocks first. Once, then twice just to be sure. He's met with silence. Letting out a breath, he takes out a key from underneath a nearby plant pot that Matthew had texted him about. I seems the plant inside had shrivelled up and died weeks ago.

Gilbert unlocks the door, a click follows, echoing. Such a small sound and yet it's the loudest thing he can hear. He bites his lip in uncertain anticipation and dread. The door creeks as he gently pushes it open, moving cautiously into the threshold, a whisper on his tongue. "Alfred?"

He shuts the door behind him, a final click. A final sound. Then he's left in silence, in the darkness of the hallway, his own breathing his only solace. The shadows play tricks on his mind, but he shakes his head to rid himself of the unease. The nurse creeps up the nearby staircase, wincing at the sound they make. He doesn't want to scare Alfred. He lets out a breath, slow and steady as he continues his ascent. He reaches the door and looks across the landing, seeing only one door ajar on the left side.

He sighs, walking towards it. Gil knocks softly then pushes it open. "Alfred?" His face drops as he looks at the figure in the bed. Alfred doesn't move, doesn't speak. Doesn't even acknowledge him. Gilbert doesn't think he's even _‘here’_ himself. "Scheiße." He quickly walks over to the blond, hands cupping his face, looking into his eyes desperately. "Alfred? Can you hear me?"

The other blinks but doesn't do anything else to suggest he processes the question. The nurse frowns, pulling him into a sitting position, thankful he continued his exercise regime when looking after Arthur because Alfred was heavy, a lot of dead weight to compensate for. Even so, he was worryingly thin. Gilbert’s aware Alfred’s an athletic type, knows he's got a similar build to himself when it comes to muscle, but his face looks thinner, bonier and more fragile. It doesn't suit him. He looks as if he's one missed meal away from looking like a Tim Burton character. The ghostly sight makes him shudder.

Gil contemplates what could 'wake’ Al, what could potentially activate his senses enough for Alfred to be pulled back from whatever void he's in, so he could acknowledge something, _anything_. He decides a bath could work. "C'mon, I'm not letting you waste away." Gil winces, shifting Alfred in his arms, trying not to irritate his own injury any more than he has to. Alfred doesn't respond to either the words or the movement, which doesn't surprise the German. He carries him into the en suite attached to the room, elbowing the light switch on his way in and hoping the light doesn’t hurt Alfred’s eyes or his own. Gil blinks a few times as he places Al down on the closed toilet, then runs the bath. The nurse looks his new patient up and down cautiously. "I'm gonna undress you, okay? I've done this before, so please don't worry." He kneels in front of Alfred. "I can leave your underwear on if you want." He looks up into his eyes for any kind of preference. There's nothing, no gears turning behind them, no movement or thought at all. He decides he will anyway, so that if Alfred does come back to reality, he won't be embarrassed if he's not comfortable being seen nude. He does the same for Mattie on bad days, so it's not a big deal.

He starts to unzip the other's hoodie, still checking for recognition now and again as he goes, both for Al's comfort and his own safety. He's still wary, and if Alfred snaps back whilst being undressed by someone in his house, he might understandably freak out. He slides it off once it's fully unzipped then works on pulling off the other’s sweatpants. He stops abruptly, noticing a large cut in Al’s thigh. By the way it's healing, he can tell Alfred hasn't done anything to remedy it. He's lucky it's not infected, even so Gil winces at the sight. "How does this keep happening to you?" He asks, but once again, it's mostly directed to himself. It's then he notices the fresh bruises on his chest, and that leads his red eyes to the scars. He breathes in harshly, eyes wide as he looks over his chest, arms, legs, _everywhere._ More keep coming. Some injuries are recent, but others...

He clears his throat, checking the temperature of the bath. Nodding to himself, he delicately moves Al into the tub. He runs a hand through Al's blond hair and plasters on the best smile he can. "Baths are pretty awesome, right?" He takes the shower head, wetting Alfred's hair then grabs the shampoo and conditioner. He starts his usual routine -Shampoo, massage it in, wait a few minutes to be thorough. The scent is nice, strawberry. Suits Alfred. It's calming, reminds Gil of summer. "See? Nice and warm. Relaxing, right? I sometimes have bubble baths when I get stressed or something." He grins this time, rinsing Al's hair with a hum. It goes on like this for another few minutes as Gil starts on the conditioner, massaging the other’s shoulders as he goes.

Steam dances around the bathroom creating a mist that attaches itself to the walls and mirror. Gilbert notices one of the walls is damaged, having been quickly and poorly fixed, a large crack that’s only just visible filled haphazardly and painted over with a shade that’s close enough to the original colour but not quite correct. He shrugs it off, trying to focus on the priority at hand. The warmth and strawberry smell follow the mist in the air and Gil breathes it in deeply, urging himself to be patient. He can see the atmosphere and array of senses working, Alfred's body beginning to gradually relax until, finally, something _shifts._ Alfred _moves._ His head lulls to the side so that he actually looks at Gilbert. His face and eyes are blank, but the nurse can see that he's at least realising and processing his presence and smiles in relief. He strokes back Alfred's hair, speaking, voice soft. "Hey, welcome back. Try not to worry, okay? I'm here to help you. Matthew sent me." He's slow with his words so that Alfred's mind can catch up and process what he’s saying. The other blinks then looks down to the bandages Gil has wrapped around his left wrist. Gilbert shifts awkwardly, clearing his throat and trying to block it from Al's view. "Are you okay speaking? Can you tell me how you feel?"

Alfred doesn't respond, just continues to stare at the empty space where Gil's wrist used to be. The nurse warily reaches out. "Okay, take your time..." He sighs, glad when Alfred lets him touch his hair again and goes back to rinsing out the rest of the conditioner. He grabs a bottle of body wash, heedful of the gash on the American's thigh. "Just gonna clean you up a bit, okay?" He carefully scrubs Al’s body clean, mindful of his bruises and other injuries, pausing to inspect the wound on his leg. He runs his finger along it gently, then grabs a cloth and cleans away the dirt, grime, and dried blood that still resides there. He looks back up at Al when he finishes, freezing. Alfred’s _crying_. But not sobbing, not making a sound, his eyes are still blank, but his lip quivers and the tears fall so easily that it breaks Gil’s heart. He’s not even close with Alfred, doesn’t know anything about him other than things Mattie has mentioned, but _fuck_. He looks so _broken_. He moves over quickly, cupping his face and wiping away the other’s tears with his thumbs, shushing him. He does this for Mattie sometimes, used to do it for his younger brother, Ludwig, when he cried as a kid. Bulky bastard doesn’t do it anymore, but still. “You’re okay.” Gil starts. “You’re gonna be okay, why don’t we get you some food?” His eyes flick down to Alfred’s chest, to where his ribcage is beginning to show, then back up as he tries to smile reassuringly. “Then we can go see Matthew okay? He misses you, ja- You’re so important to him, you know? He loves you a lot, so let’s get you on your feet.” It’s hard to console someone he barely knows, but Matthew is common ground, and he doesn’t know how to make Alfred feel important without it being awkward so making him feel important in the eyes of someone he knows Alfred loves is the next best thing he can think of. He knows the routine, knows what to say to someone _this low_. Tell them they’re important, they matter and are loved. He just prays it’s getting through to him.

Then Alfred nods tiredly and Gilbert inwardly fistbumps. It’s _working._ It’s _progress._ Alfred’s _reacting,_ he’s even _communicating._ This is good, Gil’s just gotta keep him like that, gotta keep working on pulling him back to reality. He can do this, he’s done it before, he’ll do it again. He’ll keep doing it for a long as he needs to. He’s awesome at this. There’s a reason he became a nurse and it’s because he’s _good at it_ …And because people love a man in uniform, but that’s not the point.

Gil pulls Alfred up out of the water when he’s done and guides him out of the tub, grabs some soft towels and gets to work on drying the other. He then goes to Al’s dresser and pulls out some clean underwear and pjs for him. Something shoved under the bed catches his eye, a pile of black, blue, and hints of gold stained red- He shakes his head, what Alfred keeps in his room isn’t any of his business, he thinks as he re-enters the bathroom. “Can you dress yourself?” He asks, holding out the clothes. “It’s fine if you can’t.” Alfred stares at him. Gil stares back. “…Okay.”

After dressing the other man, Gilbert leads Alfred downstairs, turning on some lights and setting him down on one of the large couches in the living room. "Stay." He says, pointing a finger. It's more him trying to lighten the mood than an actual command, he isn't expecting Alfred to move in this state. He shrugs it off, hurrying to the kitchen, raiding the cupboards for anything edible. He finds a good amount of food still in date but settles on some chicken soup, smiling at the can in his hand. It's a classic when ill. He's not sure it'll bode well for mental illness like it does physical, but it's worth a shot, so he pours it into a bowl and shoves it into the microwave, then fills a glass up with cold water. He texts Matt as he waits, informing him that Alfred's alive at least. When the microwave dings, he hums and pulls out the soup, stirring it a bit then carries it and the drink to the living room, placing it on the coffee table in front of Al. He stares at the blond for a moment then sits next to him warily. "I'm going to feed you, okay?" He reaches for the spoon with his good arm but is stopped when Alfred’s own hand wraps around his wrist. The difference between tan skin against his snowy white complexion is striking, almost as striking as the anxiety sinking into his stomach. Gilbert feels his heart stop for a moment, and his gaze flicks to Al from the corner of his eyes, analysing, calculating, planning a contingency in case wrist number two is also about to get snapped-

But then Alfred’s hand unwraps.

Instead, tan fingers trail against the bone of Gil’s wrist gently before they drop away, reaching timidly for the bowl and spoon. A silent and unsaid ‘I can do it’. So, the nurse watches as his patient slowly but steadily begins to eat without any help and allows himself to feel pride and triumph at the fact. After all, he’s fucking awesome at his job and he _does_ look good in the uniform, thank you very much.

Gil lets his eyes to wander around the room, noticing an empty glass near the armchair- Al didn’t seem like much of a drinker- And a book that was open and upside down on the carpet, pages slightly crumpled, like it had been tossed. His eyebrows furrow but before he can try to decipher what could’ve happened, Alfred speaks up.

Alfred’s voice is quiet and strained from a week of not speaking, but the words a clear nonetheless, more so are their sincerity. “Thank you.”

Gilbert nods. “No problem, it’s what I do.” He grins cockily, leaning back against the couch. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah…” Alfred looks at him now, or at least, he looks at his left hand then quickly looks away. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. You’re clearly going through something, I don’t know what, but it’s not my place to know…Just- Just take your time, okay?” He pats Al’s shoulder, smiling crookedly.

Al nods. “At least you can still write and stuff.” He says, trying to divert the conversation away from himself and the ‘something’ he’s going through, the thing he really doesn’t wanna think about at all right now.

“…Actually, I’m left-handed.”

 _Well. Fuck. That’s one way to change a conversation, good one, Alfred,_ he thinks, embarrassed and ready to throw himself out a window. “Oh. Shit.” Of course Gil would be left handed, of course he would forget left handed people existed at a time like this.

Gilbert begins laughing loudly, slapping Al’s back a little. “You’re alright, Jones.”

“…It weirdly suits you, if that makes sense. Like, no offence, but you’re a fucking weirdo dude, completely your vibe. Ties it all together.”

“So, you’re saying lefties are weird? Offence taken.” Gil smirks, laughing more.

“No, but- I don’t know how to explain it- Like the majority of people are right-handed, but you’re not. Of course _you_ , of all people, would manage to rebel against the majority even with something like fucking hand dominance.”

“Actually, when you put it like that, I get you. I do love sticking it to the man.”

“Exactly, you little weirdo.”

“I’m the exact same height as you, who you calling ‘little’?”

Al shrugs. “Just sayin’.”

“Ha! Well, anyway, now that you’re in better spirits, how ‘bout I take you to see Mattie?”

Alfred bites his lips, eyes locked on the floor as he contemplates the offer. It’s the early hours of the morning now, still dark out due to the Winter season, but visiting hours will start in two hours or so. That’s not the problem, though. He doesn’t- He doesn’t know if he can face Matthew, after everything. He knows he’ll have questions about what happened, how can he be sure he won’t shut down again? That the grief and guilt won’t suffocate him until he’s nothing but a husk of himself again? But, that is to say, is Mattie okay? Does his brother need him? Maybe, just this once, he can play hero and help someone, if they need him. Isn’t that what he’s always wanted? To be a hero? Maybe. Maybe he could do something for himself this time, too. He’ll go back to being- To being a _villain_ afterwards but just for a bit, even if it’s just an hour, he could. He could do something _good._ And for someone he loves. Not for his own soul, he knows he’s far past redemption now, but. Maybe. For the person he used to be. For him to make that dream come true, and to possibly ease Mattie’s pain, if he’s having any. Who knows, maybe it’ll ease his too? At least for a little while.

Yeah. He can do this. So, Alfred grips the couch, a shaky sigh falls from his lips as his looks Gilbert dead in the eye- Though, still cautious of the nurse, of what Roma said- And practically feels the fire, the electricity brought back to life in his own irises. They don’t burn as bright as they used to, he’s aware and they probably never will burn so significantly again, not after what he did but…There’s still something at least. Whether it’s ambition or hope or even- Even something dark, something cunning, something he himself is scared of at this point, he doesn’t know. Regardless, he sets his mind to a singular goal, just for this moment, for a dream he had when he was a kid, running around, a comic full of stories about heroes in one hand and a red blanket as a cape. Everything else could wait. He wouldn’t do this for himself, but for his brother and the person Alfred Jones used to be. For that little boy whose eyes shined brighter than any star and had a smile that could light up a whole city quicker than even his powers could, for the boy who used to stand tall on the couch and say, ‘I’m the hero!’ Yeah, he could do this for him. Even if just for an hour, he’d finally play the hero. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been like five months I'm so sorry, I really do try to write when I can and have the energy, but as I mentioned previously, I now have a job and work fulltime! I really wanted to make this chapter longer but Ik I haven't updated in a while so it's just. Here. To feed ya'll for a bit. Also, Ik this is very plot driven rn but Usuk/Ukus is coming don't worry! When I said slowburn I meant slowwwwwwburn


	6. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain

“You had me so worried.” Matthew states as he pulls away from embracing his brother.

“Sorry…” Alfred mumbles sheepishly.

Matthew sighs as Alfred sits in his usual chair. “Are you okay?” He watches his younger twin shift uncomfortably, showcasing his usual tells; an awkward bite of his lip, rubbing to the back of his neck. Matthew should really pat himself on the back for knowing his brother so well.

“Totally, yeah.”

“Alfred, don’t do that. Don't lie to me.”

“I'm-”

“Don't say you’re not. I’m not an idiot, I’m your brother, I know when something's wrong.”

“Twin intuition.”

“Stop changing the subject and talk to me,” Matthew’s hand falls on top of Alfred's. “Please.” Alfred’s hand retracts quickly, almost on its own accord. Matthew winces at the loss of contact, he knows it’s instinctual, but Alfred’s never pushed him away like this. He’s avoided him before, swerved questions before, but this was…Different.

“I-I can't.”

“Yes, you can. You don't have to do all of this alone. It’s okay to admit you need help, isn’t that what you told me when I started getting sick?”

“This is different.”

“Why?”

“I-” Alfred huffs, hand threading through his hair and pulling at the strands of gold and he shifts again. Matthew can see the familiar glisten of his eyes watering, the white corners turning red with stress similar to that of blood on the soft cotton of a body sheet, like the death of innocence itself. “I can't. You wouldn't understand-”

“I can _try._ If you let me in, I can try. You have to let _someone_ in, Al.”

“Just drop it please.”

“But-”

“Matthew, please.” Al stares at him, eyes pleading and desperate. Matthew’s mouth ultimately shuts upon hearing his full name fall from his brother's lips rather than a familiar abbreviation. He nods.

"Okay."

The door slams open: Matthew jumps slightly, but Alfred flinches. It catches Matthew's attention for a split second but before he can ask about it, Gilbert comes sauntering in. He proudly places a bottle of syrup onto Matthew's bedside table. "Für seine Hoheit," He then turns to Alfred and throws a Hershey’s bar into his lap. "Für den bauern."

"No idea what you just said, dude."

Gilbert grins wickedly. "Gut. Probably for the best."

“What? Why?"

The nurse shrugs though his grin remains. "No reason."

“...I could just use Google translate."

"If you remember what I said, much less how to spell it."

"Touche..."

“Thank you." Matthew interjects.

"No problem." Gil lifts up a blue plastic bag. "I gotta go make a wine delivery to some dramatic French bastard, call me if you need me? Or just call me anyway?"

"Will do." Matthew smiles, cheeks rubicund.

"Cool." Gilbert smiles back, turns on his heel, and pats Al's hair. "Don't get in to too much trouble whilst I'm gone, you two." Then he heads to the door, throws a lazy wave over his shoulder with a "Später Birdie, später bauer" and leaves.

Alfred grabs his phone, repeats the last word- Albeit somewhat poorly- And then frowns at his screen. "That fucker called me a peasant."

Matthew laughs, falling back onto his pillows. Once his laughter dies down, however, he looks at Al for a moment then frowns, brows furrowed. "You flinched."

"Huh?" Al replies, not fully paying attention as he scrolls on his phone. Matthew catches a glimpse of what appears to be German words. "He called you 'Your Highness', why'd I get peasant-?"

"Alfred."

“Hm? Yeah?" He looks up now. "What's up, you okay? Do you need something? Is something wrong?"

"I'm fine- But you- You flinched."

“What d'ya mean?"

“When Gil slammed open the door, you flinched. Why did you flinch?” The question hangs in the air for a beat, Alfred pockets his phone, shrugging, but he refuses to look at Matthew.

Alfred used to flinch a lot. At every other loud noise like a slam or a bang, or every time dad went to touch his shoulder or laugh a little too loudly, or even look in Alfred’s direction. Sometimes mom would try to hug him but he’d panic and swerve away. It happened with himself a couple times too, when Alfred had fallen asleep in the chair next to him, when Matthew would reach out and shake him awake. Alfred’s eyes would go wide as they bore into Matthew’s, full of fear- But then he’d process the sandy curls and soft smile and gentle touch, and he would gradually calm down. Eventually, the flinching was so obvious that it became somewhat of a weird joke dad had. None of them ever laughed other than him. It only stopped a couple months after mom and dad died. If he’s honest with himself, sometimes, late at night, he wonders if it only stopped because they did. “…You never told me what made you start doing it either...”

“You’re weirdly perceptive.”

“You couldn’t hide it, and dad used to laugh at you for it.” Then there it is again. A sudden, small, instinctual jolt that has Alfred shrinking back, as though he’s scared of Matthew, or of something he said. And Matthew’s hopeful that he’s wrong; hopeful, but not naïve. “Al-?”

“I have to go.” The younger twin stands abruptly. “I called my boss saying I’d be able to work today. I don’t wanna be late.”

Matthew blinks, watching helplessly as his brother reaches for the door, ready to shut him out again. “I love you.” He says, a last-ditch effort to show Alfred he can come to him.

Alfred pauses, hand on handle. He lowers his head slightly, almost as if he’s ashamed or as if the words are both poison to his ears and poison on his own tongue. “Love you too.” Then he’s gone. Matthew feels his heart sink, knowing that no matter how hard he pushes, Alfred won't budge. It’s frustrating to say the least, knowing Alfred bends over backwards to help him and he can't even return the favour. He’s the older brother. It’s meant to be his job protecting Alfred. Yet here he is, not even strong enough to pull himself out of bed most days. He sighs heavily and decides to let it go for now. The last thing Alfred needs is Matthew being unable to be there for him because he’s wallowing in his own ‘I-Feel-Like-A-Burden’ fuelled self-pity. Though, when Alfred’s ready to talk, he’ll be more than willing to listen.

* * *

Gilbert shrugs off both his coat and the cold as he enters the penthouse, trudging with snowy boots over towards the couches in the centre of the main room. He collapses onto the couch adjacent to Arthur, next to Francis and lazily holds out the plastic bag full of goodies. Francis takes it, sighing gratefully as he takes out a bottle of wine. “He didn’t die whilst I was gone did he?”

“Unfortunately not, but I could kill him myself when he wakes up.”

The nurse chuckles. “Mood.”

“…You were gone a while.”

“Yeah, sorry, I thought it would only take an hour but-”

“You don't have to explain. It’s okay.” He waves his hand in Gil’s direction. “I mean- He’s still alive, so...” Gilbert nods, staring at Arthur. Francis also stares. They continue to stare. Eventually, Gilbert sighs and reaches for the wine, taking a swig even whilst Francis whines in protest.

“We _both_ deserve a break so let me have some.”

“Tu es un cul.”

“Tant que je suis épais, je vais bien.”

“Plus épais que celui de Toni, mon ami.”

“...Feel like you’re calling us both dumb, not thicc as in a good thicc.”

“Then you'd be correct. Speaking of, your French could use some work.”

Gilbert huffs. “Fick dich. Warum versuchst du dann nicht, deutsch zu sprechen und zu sehen, wie du es tust.”

“Nein.” Francis smirks.

“I hate you.”

“Of course you do...How is Toni anyway?”

Gilbert shrugs. “I texted him yesterday, but he was on a date.”

“So, doing better than us in every way possible?”

“Yep.”

“Merveilleuse.” Francis frowns, wistful. “Is it with the same guy from the other night?”

“I think so. He did say he was gonna go on a second date with him. I think he’s going again next Friday.”

"Good for him.” Francis says, and though it’s genuine, he pouts. “Oh, to be at a candle lit dinner with a lover right now.” Francis exhales dreamily, looking up at the ceiling as if it could manifest himself a date.

“Instead, you’re here. With me.” Gilbert smiles as sweetly as he can, leaning his head on Francis’ shoulder. The tailor eyes Gil, frown turning into a grim expression making the other laugh. “Don't look too excited Franny.”

“Arthur owes me a lover for this.”

“Arthur owes me a week’s worth of wages and rent for this.”

“Merde- If he’s not awake in time, I’ll pay it. Tu peux me rembourser, ou pas, ça ne me dérange pas.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ve got some emergency money saved up.”

“That's...Weirdly responsible.”

“It's in case Luddy ever needs anything.”

Francis laughs. “Of course it’s for him.”

“What kind of man would I be if I didn't take care of my baby brother?”

“He’s nineteen.”

“Exactly. A baby.”

“He’s legally an adult.”

“Practically a fetus.”

“Tell me, mon ami, do you ever plan on not babying your fully grown sibling?”

“Do you two ever plan on _not bickering?”_ Both men freeze, their heads slowly turn to look over at Arthur, who’s sitting up, rubbing his eyes and groaning. He clutches his forehead, hissing in pain. “Bloody Hell, I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.”

“Arthur!” They cry out in unison, jumping up and rushing to his side, practically collapsing onto him in one huge group bear hug. The Brit attempts to push both men off of him, groaning when someone’s hand presses far too hard against what must be a bruise somewhere.

Francis pulls away with an apology but he’s smiling widely, and Arthur’s surprised to see his eyes are teary. “You’re awake!”

“Well, yes, I’m not surprised I woke up with you two loud mouths in the room.”

“Hey! Be nice! You were in a fucking coma, arschloch! If it weren’t for us, you’d be dead!” Gilbert glares at him, jaw tight. Arthur freezes in shock as he stares at his friends.

“A coma…?”

Gilbert sighs and slowly untenses, anger seeping away into clear exhaustion but also relief. Obviously, Arthur didn’t know. He should’ve realised that but clearly his emotions got the better of his medical training. “Ja.”

“For- For how long?”

“A week. Could’ve been way worse, but…”

“But it still took a toll on the both of you, I see…” Arthur chews on his lip and looks down. “…Thank you.”

Gilbert half-laughs, half-sighs. It’s no apology for the rudeness he greeted them with when he woke up, but Arthur was way too prideful for that and this was him trying. To be fair, Gilbert thinks again, he didn’t know he’d awoken from a coma. To Arthur, him and Francis probably looked like they were being insensitive pricks whilst he took a nap or something. So, he guesses he can forgive the guy. He reaches his hand out, patting Arthur’s hair. “I’m glad you’re back…Because you owe us money.”

“Bastards.” Arthur scoffs, but a smile tugs at his lips. He slaps Gilbert’s hand away. “You could just admit that you care about me.”

“No way in Hell, I’m a lot of things, but a liar is not one of them.”

“Obviously.” The Brit rolls his eyes, still smiling.

“Do you remember what happened?” Francis asks. He carefully sits next to Arthur, hand going to his shoulder, as if he doesn’t believe Arthur’s actually awake and moving and _alive._

Something flashes through Arthur’s eyes, something that’s dark and unsettling and frightened. He looks away, head lowering to stare at his hands, the ghost of fingertips still wrapped around his wrist in the form of fading, week old bruises. His fingers clench and unclench as he tries to find the words. “He…He ambushed me. I’d just finished interrogating a lead and he tackled me. He came out of nowhere.”

“Who did? Was it the Lightning Man?”

Arthur nods. Francis and Gilbert share a look. “But this time something was different. Something was…Wrong.”

“Well, ja, he tried to _murder_ you.” Gilbert says, flabbergasted.

“No- He- He _didn’t want to_. I think- I think someone was _forcing him to.”_

“Does it matter? He’s still dangerous. For all you know, he could just be insane.”

Arthur bites his lip, thinking about how the man had seemed so… _Split_. One minute he was treating it like a game, then breaking Arthur’s ankle, the next he was apologising, then he was pinning him down and throwing him off a roof even as he apologised. It was plausible the man wasn’t entirely sane. “I suppose.” He sighs heavily and moves his ankle slightly, testing the waters, wincing and hissing when he realises that it does, in fact, still hurt. He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting to be honest. It’s not as bad as it was, but he remembers what it felt like when it broke, the pain, the _fear_. The Brit swallows thickly and looks back at his arm, grimacing at the IV tube connected to him. “Please get this out of me.”

“Don’t like needles, Artie?” Gilbert laughs, a little to forced, trying to lighten the mood as always. “If you don’t like that, then it’s a good job you didn’t wake up during feeding time.”

“You’re in the wrong ‘profession’ for someone who doesn’t like needles.” Francis sighs.

“I try not to need them.”

“And yet, here we are.” He gestures at the Brit, frowning. “You could’ve died.”

“I’m aware.” Arthur spits out. His eyes squeeze shut, trying not to focus on what it felt like to lie there in that alley, cold and barely breathing, vision blurring, wondering if that was it, if that was the end, if he was going to die alone. _Of course he’s aware._ His fingers dig into the couch as he shoves the memories down and forces his eyes open again.

“But you’re still planning on going back out there, I bet.”

“Well, yes.”

Gilbert pauses, looking up from pulling on a pair of medical gloves. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Arthur asks, and he looks up. Right at Gilbert, right through Gilbert. Emerald meets ruby, ambition meets wrath.

“Did you not fucking hear us? We said you were in a coma! What, you wanna go back out there and put yourself right back into another one?” He grips Arthur’s wrist, pulling away the strips of tape keeping his IV in place quickly. Arthur winces, then glares at the German.

“It’s my choice.”

“And it’s a fucking stupid one! We didn’t drop everything for you so you could get yourself killed the moment you step outside again!”

“If I stop now, everything I’ve done thus far will be for nothing!”

“If this is about that fucking guy again-” The nurse pulls out the needle, sticking a plaster quickly in its place before the blood can come, before the red can even spill. Ever ready, ever protecting, always waiting to heal. He pulls away to throw the gauze and IV onto the table haphazardly.

“He’s taking over the city-”

“For all we know, that fucking super powered guy who _almost murdered you_ is working for him!”

“Then someone has to stop them both!”

Gilbert turns back to Arthur, face red, jaw and fists clenched. “But it doesn’t have to be you! It’s always you!”

“Because no one else will do it!”

“Because they don’t have to! And neither do you! It’s not your responsibility to look after a whole damn city, for once- Please- Just- Just be _selfish,_ you’re _allowed_ to be selfish- Just this once choose you and your own safety! You win, okay? I admit it, I fucking care about you, du arschloch! So- Just- Stop putting yourself in danger!”

Arthur’s eyes soften. Gilbert’s breathing heavily, rapidly blinking away his tears and attempting to glare and sneer, refusing to show how upset and sad and scared he actually is. “I’m sorry…I just can’t do that.”

Gilbert’s shoulders visibly sag. He shoves his hands in his pockets and blinks some more. He shuts his eyes momentarily, teeth grit, then opens them and locks them with Arthur’s. “Then I’m going. I can’t stay. I won’t watch you throw away your life, I can’t just sit by and wait for the day when _I can’t fix you._ You may be okay with sacrificing everything for this, but I’m not. I refuse to watch you die. I’m done.” Gilbert walks towards the lift. “Keep the medical equipment, you’ll need it more than me.”

Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. The couch shifts next to him, and he looks over to see Francis standing, too. “I’m afraid…I feel the same way.” He looks away, almost ashamed. “I don’t want you to do this alone. But Gilbert’s right…I can’t watch you die, mon ami. I know we don’t always get along, but…I care about you too much to see you like this ever again. It would break me, Arthur.” Arthur’s name rolls of his tongue, dripping with sincerity. Francis clears his throat and sniffles, following Gilbert towards the exit. He turns before the elevator doors can close, sapphire eyes glinting as he smiles sadly. “Take care, mon cheri.”

When the doors close, a silence fills the lift among the hum of it moving towards the ground floor. Francis is the first to break it. “So, Arthur hadn’t gone after the Lightning Man.”

Gilbert frowns, nodding. His eyes darken, becoming cold and calculating. “Nein. _He went out looking for Arthur.”_ The thought alone if enough to send chills down each of their spines.

“Arthur will be in danger.”

“Not necessarily. The bastard that tried to kill him thinks he’s dead, so Arthur will have an advantage. Not to mention, his ankle is broken. Even he’s not dumb enough to go out until it’s healed, so he’ll be out of commission for a while. That gives him enough time to prepare, ready to come back _swinging_ for that fucker, but it also gives us at least another six or seven weeks to convince him to drop this whole thing.”

“You know he won’t.”

“It’s worth a shot.”

Francis huffs a laugh. “You’re both so stubborn.”

“…You’re still going to help him, aren’t you?”

Francis’ lips thin into a line. “I…I don’t know…I don’t want to watch him get himself killed but…I wonder, if I fail to provide him with armour and protection…Will I contribute to his downfall?”

Gilbert places his hand on Francis’ shoulder. “Mein Opa pflegte zu sagen: ‘You cannot save a man who doesn’t even believe he needs saving’. We can’t blame ourselves, we have tried to stop him, we even tried to support him when that didn’t work, only for him to end up almost dying. Whatever he does is his decision, but we’re allowed to step away if it’s not healthy for us.”

“When did you get so wise?” Francis smiles. It doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Probably when I started hanging out with you so much.” Gilbert ruffles his friend’s hair, making the other shove him away, aghast.

“Ne gâche pas tout! Je travaille dur pour ces cheveux!” They step out of the elevator. Gilbert strides towards the lobby exit. Francis hesitates. Gilbert’s own words repeat in his head as he watches the nurse walk away _._ _Your armour’s good for something._ _If it hadn’t been for that, and his helmet, he would’ve bled out internally long before we got to him. Hell, he could’ve died._ He feels his heart sink. The tailor steps forward to follow Gilbert, a prayer on his lips and in his heart that him leaving won’t lead to Arthur’s demise. It comes with the burden that only time will tell if that prayer will be answered.

Now alone in the penthouse, Arthur stares at the lift. At some point, his hand had found his heart, feeling it beat under his fingertips. _Still beating, still alive,_ but pained and lonelier than it was yesterday. He feels heavy as he carefully stands, gripping the couch and moving towards his bedroom. You’d think after a week of being unconscious, he wouldn’t be so tired. Yet he feels that the warmth and comfort of his bed would be some solace in the empty apartment. Perhaps he could find a roommate, if they’d be okay with him and his activities. Or would they leave him too? He doesn’t blame Gilbert and Francis, can’t bring himself to hold resentment or hate them. He can’t expect to drag them down with him and have them smile and laugh and act like everything was fine. But it still aches, still weighs him down. How he did this alone the first few years, he doesn’t know. If he could do it then, however, he could do it again. _Hopefully._

It’s when he’s carefully pulling himself along the wall that he pauses. He looks into the full-length mirror residing there and finally sees his body for the first time. His mind comes to a screeching halt as he gapes at the extent of his injuries. He knew there were bruises, _but actually seeing them-_

They were _everywhere._ Different shapes and sizes and colours, over his calves and thighs, back and a wrist. But the most prominent was one in the centre of his chest and suddenly it’s hard to breathe and he feels like there’s a foot on his chest again, holding him down, taking the air from his lungs. He falls to his knees, gasping and clutching his neck. He’s unable to speak, unable to scream, only stare at his reflection. Hot tears fall from his eyes. Then- Then he sees _it._ The mark of what looks like a lightning burn covering his lower abdomen, and everything stops as he realises it’s going to scar him. He’d been scarred before but this one was worse than anything else. No bullet or knife or glass shard had ever done this. The worst part was that it _burned._ It wasn’t until he’d become aware of it that it started, but it was _excruciating._ Still hot to the touch. And then he’s back on that rooftop, caught off guard and vulnerable and there’s someone, _something,_ grabbing him and holding him tightly, sending something hot and painful right into his skin as he’s thrashing and panicking-

He clutches the mirror as he hyperventilates and heaves and tries again not to think of that alleyway or the rain and the darkness or the man in the mask and it’s so, so hard and Arthur falls to his side, shaking and sobbing and wondering when he’d stopped feeling powerful enough to take on the world alone and-

Then he’s crawling onto his bed and hiding under his covers, like a child running from a monster as he hugs his pillow and heaves into it. Until, eventually, the promise of safety in the form of sleep reaches out for him and he’s practically falling into its embrace, begging for its promise not to be false. As sleep takes him, his mind begins to dull until monsters in masks turn to ash and crumbs and float away in the breeze of unconsciousness.

* * *

“Hey, Laura.” Alfred says as he comes out of the kitchen, still tying his apron.

Laura, one of his co-workers, turns to him. She grins widely. “Alfred! You’re back!” Laura’s a kind Belgian woman with a sweet tooth who’s saving up to buy her own café, whilst she’s a studying at the local college under a full baking scholarship. He didn’t even know they offered scholarships for baking until he met her, but she definitely deserves it. Her treats are to die for, customer turn out doubled when she started baking for the coffee shop.

“Yeah, sorry for not being in. I’ve been ill…” He tries his best to smile at her and not think about Roma or Greenie or anything.

“You should’ve told me!” She pouts and pinches his cheek. “I could’ve made you some waffles to make you feel better!”

Alfred laughs softly, genuinely cheering up around her positive energy. “No offence, but I don’t exactly think eating waffles would’ve helped, but I appreciate it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” She sighs but then quickly smiles again. “Oh! Before I forget, I’m finishing early today. Me and my friend Antonio are going out tonight because he met some cute guy he wants to gossip to me about.”

“Good to know, you deserve it after I left you with a man down situation the past week. Hope you have fun.”

“I will!” The brunette hums and looks over the customers currently in the shop.

Alfred’s gaze follows hers and he frowns. “Is Arthur not here?”

“Hm?” Laura looks at him for a moment, bewildered before her eyes light up in realisation. “Oh! You mean that cute boy you always talk to!” She winks knowingly. Alfred’s face heats up and he looks away from her, clearing his throat.

“He’s just normally here at this time…”

“You know him well for someone who serves him his coffee every day.” The woman giggles.

“He prefers tea.”

“Exactly my point,” Laura leans on the counter, humming in thought. “I actually don’t think he’s come in for about a week now that you mention it…”

“Oh?”

“He probably sensed you weren’t in and decided it wasn’t worth it.” She winks again. Alfred blushes once more, folding his arms and looking down at his shuffling feet. Laura only chuckles as she pushes herself off the counter and moves to walk past him. “Regardless, I hope he’s okay. Such a sweet man.”

“Yeah,” Alfred finally looks up once Laura can’t see his blushing face, but the redness dies down as he looks at the empty chair where Arthur usually sits. A level of unease creeps up his spine. “I hope he is too…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These always feels way too short haha, I keep trying to extend how much I write but I don't have a lot of inspo for what happens in between the major plot points so it's hard to satisfy my own goals. I hope to write a 10k soon but we'll see if I can do it.
> 
> Anyway! I couldn't find a solid fanon or canon human name for Belgium but I've seen Laura floating around, lemme know if you like it or have any suggestions. Also most of my knowledge for her comes from the show so Idk how well I did with her character but she literally has a 1 minute and 23 seconds of screen time so I hope it's okay lmao

**Author's Note:**

> I use a lot of sentences and phrases that aren't in English. I would like to know if you guys would like me to add the translations for these at the beginning or end of the fic, or even put it in brackets at the end of each paragraph that has German/French/Etc in it, it just depends on what's easier for you guys but I don't want it to distract you from the story so it's up to you! Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter, I'll get the next one out as soon as I can!
> 
> Also, shout out to Astralastrid on Tumblr who is now my beta reader. Give them a follow if you're interested, they're awesome :)


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